Tomb of the Sun God
by Bloble
Summary: In the midst of World War 2, an ancient evil awakens. Heeding the warnings of those who divine a fearsome future, hundreds flock to Egypt to stop an Earth-shattering disaster from occurring. Yet it is upon the shoulders of three people that the fate of the world rests: An Atlas alchemist, a high-class magus Lord, and a down-on-his luck Scribe looking for his next pay check.
1. Prologue

The temple was falling apart.

Once-great statues had been worn down to mere lumps of rock with shallow faces that stared blankly at us. The stones that had been used to build the structure layer by layer were so eroded that I could probably stick my arm into the hole between any two. The elaborate warnings carved into the entrance were almost completely gone, only a few erstwhile symbols remaining for the translator to fawn over.

"Well, this doesn't look _too_ bad," my employer said. Although his mood had worsened with every step he took when we were trekking through the jungle, he was all smiles as soon as we reached our destination. "You said this place would be well protected, but I'd hardly call a few primitive traps and native tribesmen a threat." The man rapped on the walls with the back of his fist, and a small layer of dust fell out from between the stones. He brushed it off his expensive hiking gear. Somehow, he still managed to look elegant in it, a trick I haven't quite mastered yet.

The translator shook his head. The long braid that was his hair swung about as he spoke. "Not safe. Very not safe. Look. Warnings here." The man crouched down and pointed out some scuff marks on the floor near a certain tile. "See? Trap. Set off many years ago." He reached into a pouch near his waist and dipped his finger inside. He removed the digit covered in bright red dust and smeared the stuff around the trap as a warning to future adventurers.

"There's always the risk of a cave in," I added helpfully. "You might want to curb that enthusiasm, sir. Just chewing our way through the entrance is going to take a few hours."

Our employer's mood soured again. "Listen here, Scribe. I've been slogging through this hell of leaves and insects for three days. I am not going to spend another 24 hours on this island. How old did you say this temple was again?"

"At least two thousand years. Probably more."

He nodded. "Good. In that case, it's unlikely that any traps will have survived the whims of nature. Even if they did, I'll be leading the way, so there's nothing to fear."

I was hesitant, for good reason. "That's a bit risky, isn't it?"

The translator agreed. "Very bad, sir," he said. "Strong things here. Power of Gods will hurt you."

"That's fine," our employer snapped. "I'd rather die to a god than to some disease passed on from the rotting corpse of a fool who doesn't know what proper burial is. We're going through, so move aside."

He pushed his way past me. Yep, a proper magus through and through. Not fearing death nearly enough. But he paid the bills, so I let him pass.

The moment he stepped past the boundary of the entrance, we heard a click, and a column of darts shot out from holes in both walls, catching the magus in the crossfire. The translator flinched. I flinched. The magus didn't.

They bounced off his skin, which had gained a slight green sheen, and clattered to the ground. "Come along," he said. "Unless these traps can reload themselves, you have nothing to fear."

The translator looked at me, fear obvious in his eyes. I shrugged. "Magi," I told him. "They only like going slowly when it's someone else's time they're wasting."

We rushed in after the magus. I lit a torch and passed it to the translator, who gripped the thing as if it was his only life line. The magus was strolling through the temple at a steady pace, setting off an almost ridiculous amount of traps on the way. If he hadn't been completely ignoring them it would've been scary how many lethal pits, spike traps, and arrow launchers the original builders had decided to cram into the temple. As it was, we were treated to a show as everything, even a rain of boulders the size of a man's head, bounced off the magus' skin.

Going into specifics, nothing ever actually bounced off his skin, because nothing really reached him in the first place. He told me earlier that it was a boundary field rejecting space using one of his organs as the focal point. That way it moved with him, and he could feed it prana without even having to mutter an aria. A formidable defense that could repel bullets and possibly even grenades without difficulty.

I ducked as a ricocheting axe shattered against the wall behind me. "Are we there yet?" I asked the translator, who had taken to staying next to me half crouched.

He looked at the symbols on the walls. The temple had gotten more solid the deeper we went, but there wasn't a single turn or side branch to be seen. We'd been walking down a single hall for more than 5 minutes. Even the magus was beginning to sweat slightly as the toll of keeping up even an energy efficient boundary field began to wear on him.

The translator started shaking. "Stuck," he whispered to me. "We cannot get out. This is greatest trap."

"What trap?" the magus snapped. "Out with it, boy! I've enough knowledge of masonry to know that this tunnel cannot physically be this long. We must have walked half a kilometre, but the temple was considerably smaller than that."

"From outside, yes," the translator said. "From inside…"

"No." I frowned. On a hunch, I scratched a sign on the side of the wall with a knife. "Hey boss, got another minute of walking in you?"

The flagging magus straightened. "Hmph. I could go on for another hour. Don't underestimate the resolve of the great Lord-"

"Wonderful." I widened the mark, cutting into the soft rock even more. Then I fished a string out of my rucksack and tied one end to the protrusion. "Okay, let's keep going."

We continued walking forward for another few minutes. I held onto the long string, letting it unwind through my hands as we made progress. The translator was sweating bullets with the magus not far behind. Arrow after arrow bounced off his skin. Spike after spike was blunted against his magecraft. Each one took more and more effort to deflect. I saw his field flicker after a few minutes. He was running out of prana, and not hiding it well.

Luckily, a few minutes was all we needed.

I spotted a familiar sight ahead of me. There was a mark in the wall, and a string tied to it. It stretched out into the darkness ahead, invisible after a few meters. Hypothesis confirmed.

I walked to the mark, untied the string, and tied one end to the other. I suddenly felt the object get much heavier in my hands, even more so than the original string had been. I was holding the equivalent of a hundred pounds of string in one hand.

"Now…" I grunted. "We break this thing."

Bone snapped in my mind, and my magic circuit flared to life. I don't have much capacity as a first generation magus and my repertoire of spells is quite limited, so I've come to recognize just how effective improvisation and exploitation of loopholes can be. In this case the spell was one that extended and looped space in a limited area. It had safeguards against being dispelled, and also against any paradoxes occurring from the bending of physics. Due to its age and mystery, we wouldn't be able to put a dent in it the normal way. However, if a single paradox existed, then the World would crush it as an impossibility.

I'd just created one by running my prana through an infinitely long string. Thus, I had infinite amounts of prana. Thus, the spell would bear the burden of replicating and repeating an infinite amount of prana infinitely. Thus, reality rejected my action.

There was a sharp crack. I felt the world bend and warp around us, twisting into non-Euclidean shapes as reality tried to reassert itself. A pressure fell on my back, the defense system of the spell springing into action as it detected my attempt, but it was too little too late. Merely a moment later, we were back in the hall, the string completely gone from my hand as if it had never existed in the first place.

"That was… surprisingly impressive of you," the magus said. I caught a hind of approval in his voice before he returned to his usual self. "I do wish you'd done it earlier, though."

"I'm a scribe, not a miracle worker."

We continued on. There were precious few traps after I broke the big one, and it was mostly a variation on the arrows, spikes, and falling rocks. There was even an obvious one that would bring a five thousand ton rock down, crushing not only a trespasser but most of the hall. Luckily, it was visible enough for our translator to notice it and warn us away. It took most of the magus's remaining prana, but we made it past without a scratch, reaching the center chamber of the temple.

I neglected to describe it earlier, so I'll do so now. The temple itself was nothing special on the outside, but on the inside it was expertly built so that all the secret tunnels and hidden passages were only accessible by someone who knew where they were at the time of building. The darkness and cramped conditions didn't help the atmosphere, and neither did the vines all over the walls and constant skittering of blind insects. At least it wasn't sandy.

The center room, however, was gigantic. The tiny spot of light our torch made in wasn't enough to illuminate the ceiling or any of the walls other than ours. We could see the stone floor panels in front, and nothing else other than a tiny spark in the distance. It had to be some form of space warping magecraft, but unlike the previous spell, this one wasn't a trap.

"This is where offerings were made," the translator whispered. "Fruit, crafts, animals."

A skeleton slumped against the wall to my right. It was picked clean and completely white from head to toe, with only the ragged scraps of clothing on its frame and complete absence of a left arm past the elbow showing that it had not died peacefully. Its empty eye sockets stared accusingly at me.

The translator gulped audibly. "Flesh."

I raised my hand. "_Licht_."

The weak flames of the torch faded as a corona of light spread from my hand. Soft at first, then brighter as the light spread out farther. At first it only covered a few square meters. Then more. Finally, the entire room was illuminated by soft white orbs that floated in the air, silently burning prana to keep it alight. It was a simple two part exercise for children. First, turn your prana into energy, in this case light. Second, create a system that operates independently. In this case, a simple spell to replicate what you did by yourself using a separate supply of prana.

Interesting what the simplest things can do.

Fully visible, the inner chamber was a beauty to behold. There was none of the decay or degradation we had witness outside. The inside was almost flawless, without a single out of place stone. Elaborate carvings adorned the walls, the vibrant dyes giving the colour having yet to fade over the years. Apart from the skeleton at the corner of the room, there was no evidence of anyone having been there.

And in the center was a tiny step pyramid, at the top of which was a bronzed, circular plate. A few inches above it floated a soft white clump of… something. I can't really describe it. It was ethereal yet substantial at the same time. I could see it with my bare eyes, but there was a feeling of something much deeper underneath.

The magus grinned. "This is it," he breathed. "You've done well, Scribe. Now make sure to record this moment, for it is the day this world regains a magic thought long lost thanks to my efforts."

The translator just prostrated himself before the altar, mumbling prayers I couldn't understand.

As the magus all but ran to the altar, I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. Something was wrong. This was too easy. Ordinary traps? Not enough. A space warping spell? A bit overkill, yes, but someone had gotten past it. So why was that flame still there?

I looked at the skeleton again. Its left arm was gone, but the bones were nowhere to be seen in the room. In fact, it was as if it had disappeared. The humerus had been severed cleanly around the halfway point. I crouched down near it to get a better look. I dully heard the mumbled prayers of the translator and the steps of the magus approaching the flame he'd been seeking. There were no marks of a wild animal of any kind, or signs of the skeleton putting up a fight.

Instinctively, I looked to the right side of the skeleton. The room had been charmed against decay, but the skeleton hadn't, so its possessions wouldn't last long.

My hunch was right. Next to the dead man's right hand was a smattering of rust in the shape of a long metal object. What had once been a blade had completely rusted away. Could it be? Had the skeleton severed its own arm and bled to death trying to get out? But why?

I looked up. "Don't touch it!" I screamed, but it was too late. The green, shimmering hand of the magus closed around the floating ball of fire.

In that moment, everything went wrong.

The bounded field shattered, scattering fragments of white flame all over the magus' upper right. He screamed as it settled on bare flesh and cloth. The translator fell back, panicked at the yell, but he and I could do nothing but watch as the flame started to consume the magi's arm.

The magus turned to me, fear explicit on his face. "Help!" he croaked, but it was already too late. The flame had spread. In seconds his right arm was covered in fire, and the jumping sparks spread to his left as well. He stumbled towards us, but by the time he had reached the bottom of the steps his entire body was being eaten alive by the fire.

I grabbed my canteen, sliced open the side with a hunting knife, and threw it at the magus. The bottle broke open on contact, depositing almost a hundred litres of life giving liquid on him, but it was a futile effort. Magical fire wouldn't be quenched by mere water.

"Great," I muttered as his screams died down. "The enchantment on that thing was expensive."

The magus sank to his knees in front of the frozen translator, his screams petering out abruptly as his life faded. The fire had covered his entire body, burning the corpse even after death.

"And there goes my paycheck."

"W-Wrath of God!" the translator screamed. "Flames of Anger! We must go, outsider. We must go now!"

I wasn't about to protest. Some part of my soul yearned for the fire, urging me to touch it and bathe in the warmth. However, a lifetime of training and instincts said the opposite. I knew that a single touch would be deadly.

I stood up. "Okay. We're going. Don't think we can take his body though."

The translator nodded as he rose to his feet. "Yes. Leave him. Sacrifice to Wrath of God."

Then a flame wreathed hand closed around the translator's foot.

"No," the burning skeleton of the magus looked up, white flame sparkling in his empty eye sockets. "Wrath of _me_." With no more vocal chords, the words were formed by the reverberation of fire. And they were terrifying.

The translator's screams were shorter than the magus' had been. Perhaps without magic circuits, he was less equipped to resist the magical fire. This time the flame moved with purpose, rushing up the man's leg and reaching his face in less than a second. As soon as the fire burnt into his brain, the man was silenced, standing stiffly as the fire spread all over his body.

Next to him the magus rose, turning its head towards me and giving me a familiar skeleton grin.

I bolted for the exit, but I was too slow. The magus skeleton opened its mouth and belched forth a torrent of flame towards the entrance, coating it in white fire and blocking it off. At the same time, the translator's body turned to me, its flesh already burnt away completely. It broke into a shambling run.

Time for plan B. I drew Miss Daisy from my pocket and in the space of a second emptied three rounds into the fiery skeleton's face. The translator stopped in its tracks, almost falling backwards, but kept its foothold. It looked at me again; the three holes in its head leaked even more fire. The skeleton's smile hadn't shifted an inch.

"Fuck."

This time they both charged me, the magus skeleton throwing globs of flame at me while the translator's stuck to running me down. I ducked and dashed away, hoping that their less than fleshy appearance would translate to a harder time moving.

I was partially right. Perhaps because some part of his soul resisted the movements, the magi's skeleton was less agile than the translator's. What it gained in spell power it traded for reduced ability to move. It shambled much like a cripple towards me, while the translator's gained an agility far surpassing anything a human body could output. Flames exploded behind it, launching the creature towards me.

I spun in place, throwing myself onto my back and firing both of Miss Jane's barrels point blank into the translator's chest. Less than a foot away, I felt the heat scorch my eyebrows before the magical portion of the shots kicked in and launched the skeleton backwards, sending it flying into the opposite wall. Being lighter in mass than a human, it had flown much farther than expected, and with a pulverized spine it wouldn't be rising any time soon. Almost as an afterthought its skull exploded outwards. Miss Daisy's bullets must've finally activated their effect, most likely delayed by the fire somehow. Once it was finally dead the white fire faded, leaving behind only bones.

It must've been sheer dumb luck that the flying skeleton absorbed the blast of fire that would've enveloped me in a second. Instead, I was given the chance to fumble in my backpack for more shells while the magus skeleton screamed at me with that unearthly voice.

"Not very tough, are you?" I shot back while ejecting the spent shells. Rule number one when facing an insane, speech capable opponent: Always banter. Always. More often than not they'll end up doing a nice monologue and giving you some time to get your bearings.

The skeleton cocked its head. I heard sharp cracks as its joints popped. "Beware," it proclaimed, pointing a bony finger at me. "All intruders must be eliminated." Then it turned into a flamethrower.

Okay, so the monologue thing only works on really stupid magi. Thousand year old defense systems don't exactly qualify. I danced back, narrowly avoiding being reduced to ash as the fire blanketed the floor in front of me. The flames quickly faded, however, except for the spent shells, which burned brightly.

It was then that I realized it. A glance at the entrance confirmed my thought. The flames that had blocked off my exit were already gone. The room itself was also completely unaffected by the fire, which made sense. The defense system wasn't meant to destroy the temple, just stop intruders. To let it use its abilities freely, the room must've been enchanted to resist fire and damage. So all I needed to do was kill the thing or distract it and I'd be free to go.

Of course, it would be easier said than done. Time to bring out the big guns, literally.

I drew Miss Velvet from my backpack, unfolding the stock and bracing it against my shoulder. After jumping back from another ineffectual blast of fire that would've flash fried an entire cow, I took aim, squeezed the trigger and was rewarded by the skeleton's head shooting back from the impact of high velocity sniper rifle bullet on skull.

With a series of sickening cracks the magus straightened his skull, glaring at me with empty eyes. The bullet had lodged itself in his forehead, creating a spider web of fractures on the bone but little else. Reinforcement. Reinforcement strong enough to stop my heaviest hitting weapon in its tracks. If I tried using anything else it would probably just bounce off.

I fired four more times. By the end of it, my hands were aching from the recoil and Miss Velvet's barrel was glowing red hot, but the skeleton's skull looked like someone had taken to it with a jackhammer. It roared like a forest fire and charged as soon as it became apparent that I was out of ammunition.

Only to fall flat on its face.

The skeleton tried to push itself up, but it couldn't. Its hands moved, as did the rest of its body, but its skull was squashed against the floor and not moving.

"Five tons," I said, folding my gun back into its more compact form and stuffing it into my backpack. "One per bullet. Delayed effects are annoying, aren't they? Well, I'm sure you'll figure out the spell eventually, but by that time I'll be long gone."

I paid a final goodbye to the center chamber and walked right past the immobile, screaming skeleton, waltzing out of the temple as if I owned the place.

Or at least, that's what would have happened if the skeleton hadn't simply removed its head and gotten up anyway. Where the skull would have been was instead the angry, barely visible face of a white tiger, shooting daggers my way with its glare alone. As I watched, a familiar green field appeared around the flaming skeleton sans head. Now even all my grenades wouldn't do the trick.

It roared.

I ran.

I was closer to the exit and made it out first. Unfortunately, there was nothing keeping the flaming skeleton in the large room, so it ran after me with none of its previous clunky movements. It leapt from spot to spot like a hunter, gaining with every step. I could've sworn I saw a green force field sharpening into claws around its limbs.

I poured all of my prana into a hasty reinforcement. My legs protested the treatment and I knew I'd barely be able to walk the next morning, but if I got touched by that thing my life would be over. The headless skeleton fell behind only slightly before it sped up too, slowly but surely closing the distance.

There were a few hundred meters until the exit to the temple. Even at a glance I knew I wouldn't make it. The skeleton was too light and too fast, and I was tiring. It was when an arrow shot past my cheek that I realized what I had to do.

We'd disabled most of the traps on the way in, but there were a few left untouched and simply avoided. One in particular even the magus wouldn't have been able to survive. It was coming up soon, and it would be my only chance. Even so, I couldn't stop. I'd have to trigger it at just the right time. All or nothing.

It was as I felt the heat creeping up on me that I stepped on a certain floor tile. There was a click, and the sound of hundreds of tons of rock scraping against stone. I shot forward with a reinforced leap, feeling rock scrape against my back.

The skeleton at my back barely had time to look up before a five thousand ton spherical boulder flattened it like cannonball against a tomato. There was a sickening crunch, and the magical monster's roar abruptly cut out. I saw the white flames brighten momentarily as it put up an ineffectual struggle, and then they faded away, leaving behind nothing but shattered bones.

I stopped, almost collapsed, and leaned against the wall, laughing. There are plenty of ways that could've gone, I told myself, but this was better than expected. Sure, my guide was dead and I'd have to find my way back alone. Sure, the guy who was supposed to be paying me had bit the dust, but perhaps I'd be able to negotiate with his family to have them refrain from killing me in retaliation. At least I was safe.

Here's a fun fact for you. Although it was very slight, so much so that we didn't even notice it on the way in, the hallways was sloped. The entrance was the low point, and the main room was the high point. That meant all round objects would inevitably begin to gravitate towards the exit if placed on the floor.

It was the groaning that tipped me off. I looked up and saw the leftover bones continuing to crack as the rock on top of them shifted. I blinked a few times, not understanding. Then the giant boulder lurched forward, and I finally got it.

"Oh _hell_ no."

Once more, I ran. This time rather than a ferocious magical creature, I had a giant rolling stone behind me, and it wouldn't stop for anything. Honestly, I would've preferred the tiger skeleton thing. At least it could be killed. Theoretically.

I'm not sure if I screamed. I do know, though, that I finally discovered the sprinter in me. Through a combination of reinforcement and sheer desperation, I moved faster than I ever had in my entire life. It almost wasn't enough.

I made it out, of course. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be around to write this. It was a close thing, but in the end I got to the entrance and swung to the side right before the boulder could flatten me. I saw it continue through the forest for a few hundred meters, knocking down several trees in its way, leaving me feeling at once guilty and glad to be alive.

So here I am, writing this thing. Gotta at least do my job, even if the guy who hired me is dead. I wasn't a very good companion, but I'll try to be a decent Scribe to the end.

Now… how the hell am I going to get out of this damned forest?


	2. First Entry

I'm in Egypt.

A bit of a sudden development, yes, but apart from the country, not an unusual one. This isn't the first time I've been whisked away from the office with barely an hour's notice. Last time it was Italy, the time before that, Peru. Some employers, like this one, are very much in a rush and looking for someone to fill in a recently vacated spot in their retinue. I'm usually near the top of the lists of suitable people, so I've had to get used to people banging on my door in the middle of the night. The only problem now is that I can't just shoot them and go back to sleep. I have to check first.

The morning actually started quite pleasantly. I woke up in my bed, all my limbs were intact, and the housekeeper had just started dressing herself. A rather frantic hour later she finished pulling on her maid outfit and informed me that a letter had arrived in the mail from someone calling themselves 'Lord'.

That's where the pleasant day ended. Pulling the letter open revealed the standard cryptic message veiled with a few more threats than usual. The man said he would arrive at 12:00 PM. By the time I was finished reading it was 10 to and I hadn't even gotten a chance to shave, let alone make myself presentable.

At the third stroke of 12 I pulled open the office's front door seconds after pulling on my pants, revealing a rather irritated gentleman who wouldn't have looked out of place in the 18th century. His strong brows and wild mane of greying brown hair afforded him the appearance of a gruff lion. "Grant me entrance," he commanded, flashing me the emblem of a rather major magus family.

"Name?" I asked.

He folded his arms, levelling a glare at me. "I said grant me entrance."

"And I asked for your name. Do you think I'd just let anyone inside without proof of identity? You could be Merlin himself, but you're also a guest in my house. As a courtesy, your name will suffice."

I saw him visibly repress his anger. This one was rather irritable, even compared to most. He was still reasonable though, even if only by his strange definition of reason. "Lysander Octavius Archibald," he said. "A Lord of the Clock Tower. I trust you recognize the name?"

I did, as well as the face behind it. I was tempted to refuse him entry and shut the door, but logic won out. There was no need to insult the man more unless I wanted to find myself homeless the next day. I disabled the wards with a few murmured words. He pushed past me the next moment.

"Hmph." He turned up his nose at the rather disorganized state of my office. "Is this how you leave your workshop? It's a disgrace to magi everywhere."

"It's also a front," I said, shutting the door after double checking for more mail. "Any intruders will be too occupied rooting through the rubbish to realize where my real workshop is. Anyway, the state of my office is not the topic of conversation here. What are you looking for?"

He paused for a few minutes, no doubt waiting for me to append a more respectful ending to my sentence. Upon finding none, his eyes narrowed. If he hadn't been frowning earlier, he was now. "I seek a Scribe," the man said. "You were recommended to me by an acquaintance, one with which I shall have some very stern words when I get back."

I stepped around my cluttered desk, brushed a few papers off the chair, and sat down on the creaky thing. "Well," I muttered. "That acquaintance of yours knows his Scribes. Yeah, I'm your man. What's the destination?"

"Luxor."

"Come again?"

The Lord looked at me incredulously for a moment, as if I'd asked him what colour the sky was. "Egypt," he said at last. "It's a city in Egypt."

"No deal," I said. "Sorry for the trouble, but I don't do Egypt. I'll give you the address of a buddy of mine. He's not as good as me, but he'll do."

"I think not."

Now it was my turn to frown. "I already refused. If you wish to get someone else, then ask another acquaintance of yours."

Lord Archibald, however, was a stubborn one. I didn't know why he needed me in particular, but he was too determined to back off because of a simple 'no'. "Your refusal is foolish, so I've elected to disregard it. I've taken a look at your situation. If you don't pay your rent by the end of the month, you'll be evicted. When's the last time you paid that housekeeper of yours?"

I stiffened. Just how much did he know?

"I don't do Egypt," I said once more. "I've never been there, and I have no experience with the history or the geography. I _recommend_," I stressed the word. "That you get someone who has been there before, if only for your own benefit, in case you didn't notice that there's a _war_ going on. Your concern over my monetary status is appreciated, but I have plans."

He harrumphed. "Vagrancy is not a plan, Mr. Scribe. Neither is desperate lying. You haven't been on an expedition for three months. Your money ran out two weeks ago. You are in no position to refuse my offer. If you continue to do so, then it'll become something much less respectful."

That fucker. He knew me. He had it all planned out. He also had me cornered.

I accepted. It's not like I could've done anything else. He was right. As much as I hate it, this is my last chance. After my last failure, word went around. No one would hire me, because for some the idea of a Scribe outliving his Magus and Guide is equivalent to blasphemy. As much as I could understand and even respect the man's methods, the reason behind them still eludes me. Why? Why hire me of all people? I'm good, yes, but there are better Scribes, and my points were valid. I've never done an expedition to Egypt. I barely know anything about it. Yet for some reason Lord Archibald insisted on having me be his Scribe.

Well, I'll have to figure it out later. For now, it's best to focus on surviving the next week. See, it was only after I accepted his offer and signed the relevant contracts that he told me the circumstances behind our trip.

I'm not going to transcribe everything here by hand, so I've included a copy of the letter that Lord Archibald received yesterday. He was amiable to parting with it, and it contains no incriminating information other than the revelation that the Vice Director of the Clock Tower might be a sadist.

_To nobody of consequence,_

_I dislike banter and dancing around the issue, and you aren't in any position to hold audience to it, so my message shall be as brief as possible. If you at any point have less than full comprehension of the following words and phrases in this message, feel free to apologize in your reply for your lack of knowledge and complete incompetence, following your prompt resignation from whatever seats of power you might hold. If it is well worded enough, I may even see fit to accept._

_First, congratulations. You have been deemed worthy enough to receive this message. The precise qualifications for 'worthy' are not something that will be revealed to you, but it will be enough for you to know that you possess some small ability or skill that an elite unit of several Enforcers does not. Because of that, you can be of use, and have been sent this letter._

_You will receive this message precisely at 7:40 PM on the eve of the 20__th__ day of October. Your replies will be sent to me within an hour and twenty minutes of receiving this message by the same method used to deliver it, and I am to receive them at 6:30 AM the following day. If they are late, please refer to the first paragraph for your instructions._

_The Second World War, as the world deems fit to call it, is reaching a turning point. Within a few days, the predicted counteroffensive from the so called 'Allies' will begin, eventually breaking the hold of the 'Axis' on the country of Egypt after weeks of fighting. _

_This is your time limit. _

_As you no doubt know, having kept up with the times, the esteemed Professor Alexander Darwinius Archibald, a close associate of mine, only recently (63 years and 2 months ago, to be precise) published a theory of his claiming that despite heavy looting being done in the area for centuries, the Valley of Kings holds a secret that might provide access to the Root. You may recognize this name as that belonging to the same man who published a separate thesis two years later, insisting that one or more of the mummified humans laid to rest in the tombs of Egypt is a Dead Apostle in a temporary state of sleep._

_Although naturally the thesis was ignored by most, including myself, a few foolish magi took it upon themselves to attempt to pillage this national relic, and travelled to Egypt looking for this fabled artefact, causing a temporary rise in the popularity of such escapades, even among the mundane. Needless to say, most came back humbled and disappointed, while others did not return at all. The Professor himself made his way to that place a short 50 years after publishing said thesis, and was never heard from again. The Pyramids that were the subject of his writing had already been heavily explored by both the Clock Tower and the Church more than a century ago, and further exploration has revealed nothing of worth that had not already been removed at least a millennium earlier. It's now little more than a spot for tourists and people with too much money, but not nearly enough sense._

_Beginning yesterday, the situation has changed. Since the news does take some time to, as the young ones put it, 'get around', you will be forgiven for any possible ignorance of what transpired approximately 22 hours ago, and I shall summarize the event for you._

_All three of the Clock Tower's highest ranking Seers predicted a change in the foreseen future. Events that previously been resulted in an Allied Victory in Europe and an end to this irritating war in less than a decade have now been changed to mass genocide and near extinction of human and animal life in a radius of 193.56 kilometres around the Pyramids of Giza, with a margin of error of 0.00134 kilometres, as well as severe distortion to the previously predicted future. Anywhere from 1 to 3 hours before the incident, a large spike of prana will be detected several hundred kilometres away, centered on the Valley of Kings. There is almost certainly a relation between these separate events, but conventional clairvoyance has not yielded it as of this moment, and will be unlikely to do so in the near future. Independent Seers have come forth verifying this change, and the alchemists of the Atlas Institute have also submitted reports affirming our own. _

_The consequences of this genocide will be twofold. First, there is a large probability (95.36% to be precise) that the existence of magecraft be revealed to the mundane world. Second, the Allies will, instead of pushing back the Axis, be forced out of Africa and eventually out of Europe itself, due to Cairo being a central point in the command structure of their army. This is undesirable for a great many reasons, none of which are the subject of this message. I will repeat myself this once: Your time limit is October 29__th__, a week after the start of the soon to be named 'Second Battle of El Alamein'. The day after is the date of the aforementioned genocidal event. The Church, although not willing to call a truce over the affair, has admitted to sending several teams of Executors to Egypt to investigate. _

_We are sending you._

_You are as of now charged with investigating the phenomenon that will occur nine days from now and if possible, preventing it from occurring. You are to reply in the affirmative, acknowledging that you have received and understand the message. If you do not reply to this letter in the allotted time, the means of its arrival will ensure that you do not live to see tomorrow. You are free to arrange and undertake your expedition as you see fit. Standard rules apply. If you do not know the standard rules, please refer to the first paragraph. _

_You must also arrange your own transportation. Participation in the mission is mandatory. If you do not wish to participate, do not send a reply. If you do not wish to participate or die a horrible death, send a reply detailing precisely why you are unable to unwilling to participate. Note that ailing relatives, crippling disabilities, and terminal illnesses are not acceptable reasons._

_It can be assumed that you will meet others during your expedition. You are to dispose of them as you wish, but be aware that other, unofficial organizations may have already sent representatives. Atlas has a very large presence in Egypt, and making contact with them is not an unwise decision, even if they are not closely affiliated with the Clock Tower at the moment._

_You reward for this mission is as follows:_

_One (1) personal favour from myself in the unforeseeable future._

_To claim the reward, you must present evidence after the conclusion of the mission that you were responsible for its success, following the usual guidelines or an acceptable alternative. If two people present valid evidence, the most applicable will be accepted. The reward will not be duplicated, and only a single person may receive it. If you complete the mission but are not eligible for the primary reward, your secondary reward is the continuation of your life. At the same time, retrieving only the secondary reward can only be considered a disappointment._

_Do not disappoint me._

_A final word. What awaits you in Egypt is something few of you have experienced. I know many of you by name, and I will state here that compared to your ancestors you are woefully inadequate. You may have advanced your craft, but the legacy passed down to you has at best, stagnated and become mired in the muck of mediocrity. Let this assignment be a lesson to you not to forget the triumphs and mistakes of your elders. Before you will stand the ruin of a civilization older than our language. An empire so grand that its Kings were as Gods, its people exemplifying the greatness of humanity. A country that in time became its own mausoleum._

_If you are unwise, it shall be yours as well._

_Barthomeloi Lionel, Head of Clan Barthomeloi and Vice Director of the Clock Tower_

Alexander Darwinius Archibald… almost certainly related to my new employer. So there must be a personal reason for him to go to Egypt on top of the ridiculous reward being offered. I'm not naïve enough to think that he's going there because he wants to save the world.

Just to clarify, a favour from the Vice Director of the Clock Tower is no small thing. Many see it as the equivalent of getting to wish on the Holy Grail. A second rate magus can become a Lord almost overnight with a single request. Entire families might disappear at the whim of a single person. Riches beyond one's wildest imaginings are the least of what a favour from Lord Barthomeloi can get you. Even having an unused favour is an effective bargaining chip in the hostile environment of the Clock Tower.

I don't really care about that, though. _My_ reward is a blank check signed by Lord Archibald, enough to finance me for at least a few years if not the rest of my life. All I have to do to get it is survive for a week in a warzone, in more ways than one. On top of the fighting between armies, there'll be hordes of magi clamoring for the Vice Director's reward. It'll be a nightmare, and I'll be stuck in the middle of it with someone who's liable to incinerate me if I look at him funny. It's times like this I wish I had the power to nullify a geas. It would make life so much easier.

I left the very same day, at 7. Archie (forget respect, I'm calling him that from now on) gave me the rest of the day to prepare. I packed my standard kit, as well some heavier guns in case things got ugly. There was little else to do after that but wait.

"Shall you be gone for long?" My housekeeper asked me as she picked at her nails.

"A week," I said softly from the other side of the bed. "Maybe a little more. Will you need anything?"

She smiled after picking a particularly resilient fleck of dust from under a finger nail. "Oh, I'll be just fine. I dare say a week without you would be a nice rest to have. I've been planning on moving out soon enough as it is, so I'll just use this opportunity to find myself a permanent residence. I might even practice some of those magecraft exercises you taught me."

I winced. Smart lady, that one. At this point, she probably has more money than I do.

Lord Archibald came to pick me up exactly on time, and I made sure to be prepared in advance. I waved goodbye to the housekeeper as we entered the Lord's expensive automobile. The driver brought us to a private airport with a minimum of fuss and nausea. There, we boarded a small plane that didn't look like it would be able to fly all the way to Egypt. Then again, neither do most planes I've been in. Archie assured me that it had been treated with various enchantments to minimize risk and maximize comfort, but that didn't make me feel any better as it rose with a dozen sputtering cracks.

Goodbye, London.

The flight was horrible. I'd thought the car was bad, but flying was worse. It always is, really. I've flown dozens of times and each flight is just as unbearable as the last. The plane shuddered and shook constantly, giving me a headache within the hour. I had to endure what seemed like an age of roaring engines and screaming wind until Archie took pity on me and cast a spell to diminish the sound from outside slightly. That left only the rapidly vibrating seats and feeling of having my brains scrambled, which I could deal with. Archie himself looked a bit green, which helped quite a bit in restoring my mood.

"So!" I asked him three hours into the flight. "Who's the Guide?!"

"What?!"

"_Who is the Guide_?!"

"I have it taken care of! I hired an alchemist from Atlas! She'll be meeting us when we land!"

That was good. I haven't met many of them, but the folks from Atlas tend to have their heads on straighter than most magi. If you get past the fact that most of them are about as socially capable as a toddler, you'll find that more often than not they'll end up saving your life. The fact that Atlas' main base was in Egypt also meant that our Guide would be a local, which was even better. My positive views of alchemists are part of the reason most ritzy magi hate my guts. The feeling is usually mutual.

At one point during the flight, I felt the plane shudder even more so than usual. The sound of metal pinging on metal came from one of the walls, and I felt our vehicle do a sudden dive before rising even more sharply. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on.

I unbuckled my seat belt and got up. A swerve of the plane threw me into the wall, but I grabbed onto the nearest protrusion and pulled myself up again. Barely able to walk, I made my way to the pilot's compartment. There were two seats, one for the pilot, and the other for the co-pilot. The latter was empty, so I strapped myself into it.

"You shouldn't be here, sir!" The pilot responded. The view out of the window was horrible, but I thought I could make out flashes of light and moving shapes in the scattered clouds. "Just buckle yourself in and I'll take care of everything!"

I shook my head. "Not a chance! I'm betting ten that Archie pukes in the next minute! I'd much rather sit with someone who actually knows what's going on!"

The pilot laughed. "What's going on is we're flying through a combat zone! Looks like these guys are thinking we're some kind of spy plane and are trying to shoot us down!"

"Will we be alright!?"

"Sure! I can fly this tin can right on through! Don't know what Lord Archibald did to it, but the bullets are just bouncing off like they're hitting a rock!" As he said that, I felt something pepper the underside of the plane. If I hadn't been strapped in, I would've smashed into the ceiling.

"What was that!?"

"Just some flak! Eighty-eight, from the sound of it! Not to worry, we'll shake it off easily enough!"

I had little to no idea what he was talking about, but it didn't sound good. The next few swerves upwards the plane took didn't make me feel any better, and neither did the ones after that.

I spent most of the remainder of the plane ride sitting next to the pilot as we passed through one combat zone after another, with very few breaks in between. He turned out to be pretty swell guy. Apparently he was a third generation mage who'd signed up for the war out of patriotism. After most of his entire unit had gotten wiped out in an earlier battle he'd been discharged due to wounds that could be healed in seconds by any competent magus, and returned home with some nice scars, even nicer medals, and plenty of stories for the ladies. Thanks to his new talents, he spent much of his time flying rich magi from country to country for ridiculous amounts of money, and then flirting with their daughters.

"See, they could pay much less for a regular pilot, and he'd probably be at least as good as me or better, but most magi think '_oh no, we can't rely on a mundane'_, and pay me five times as much for an identical service. It's all a bit stupid, but I'm getting loads of money from it, so I can't complain."

It took us only half an hour to pass through the last storm of bullets and flak, and 15 minutes later we landed in what looked to be the middle of a nowhere. There was just desert stretching out in every direction. After a landing that was even bumpier than the liftoff, we found ourselves in a miniature village.

There were ugly houses made of stone and mud, of different sizes and shapes. I spotted a mosque near the center, built much more finely than the rest of the buildings. Citizens crowded the rather narrow streets as if there wasn't a war going on right next to them. Perhaps it's the ward. If it hides the village from detection, no one would think to try and attack. The worst these people have to deal with is the occasional patrol that stumbles onto them by accident.

The pilot gave me a wave and his contact information on a slip of paper as I stumbled out of my seat. In the back compartment, Archie was all but passed out, thankfully not in a pool of his own vomit. When he saw me he made a herculean effort to look fine, and failed miserably.

"You alright?"

"Fine," he said. "Let us disembark. I dislike these fancy machines." So do I, buddy. So do I.

The first thing I noticed when we opened the doors was the lack of humidity. I almost choked on it. The moisture in my body protested, and I felt almost as if the air itself was sucking me dry. The second was the heat, the feeling of sunlight pounding on my back as if it had real weight to it. The third was the sand.

"This… isn't good," I said as I looked at the fine grains that were practically everywhere. "Not good at all." These were going to get into _everything_.

Archie opened his mouth to reply and then closed it to refrain from vomiting. He saw the dents in the bottom of the plane's hull and became even paler.

The fourth thing I noticed was an Egyptian girl of barely 19 standing in front of the plane, holding a wooden sign with Archie's name scrawled on it.

I walked over to her. "Are you Lord Archibald?" she asked. Her accent was barely noticeable. She must have been practicing.

"No," I replied. "He's the guy trying to keep his lunch down by the plane. Are you the Guide?"

After nodding yes, she turned her attention to Archie, giving me time to get a good description of her. I'd say the Guide was about half a foot shorter than me. Her long black hair was left straight to fall a bit beyond her shoulders, but I saw creases that indicated she had worn it as a pony tail or braid more than once. Other than that, she looked like one of those wall paintings you see in museums brought to life. She even had that strange eye makeup on. As she walked to the plane I couldn't help but glance at her again. More specifically, at a certain part of the anatomy that was barely covered by those _very_ light clothes.

I almost had to slap myself afterwards. I was almost ten years older than her. She was as far out of my range as she could get without being young enough to be my daughter.

While the girl spoke to Archie, I kept a look out. I had expected to be approached by beggars almost immediately, but instead was left alone by the populace. They simply walked past me, the plane and the runway without looking twice. I noticed a few angry glances from some of the older folk sitting in the shade, but nothing else. Curious.

"Scribe," Archie approached from behind. "We have a schedule to keep. I have arranged transportation to the Valley of Kings. We leave now." Next to him was the Guide, no longer carrying the sign.

"What, no time to explore this place?" I asked. "We'd be skipping dinner." The sun was beginning to set anyway. It was better to travel during the day, even if the sun beat down on our backs. We had more than a week until the deadline anyway, so there was no reason to rush.

The Guide spoke up. "If we leave now, we will most likely be ambushed in the night by another magus' retinue and then left for dead. I recommend we leave next morning." All that morbid stuff and not even a twitch. Perhaps she wasn't so young after all.

Archie grumbled a bit, but I could tell he wasn't putting his heart into it. Magus or not, everyone needs to rest after suffering through hours of driving and flying. He only put up a token resistance before changing his mind. "Very well then," he said. "I've decided to wait. We shall leave tomorrow. Guide, this city is controlled by Atlas, is it not? Make arrangements for sleeping quarters to be prepared. You should be able to do that even without proper tutelage."

Frosty, that one. He _is_ from the Clock Tower after all. I'm surprised he even hired someone from Atlas given all the bad blood between the two factions.

True to his word, we had a place to sleep within an hour. It was a small house on the edge of the town with no luxuries to name except three beds and a curtain for a door. The Guide, who later told me that her first name is Moriah in exchange for me revealing my own, said it was the best she could do on short notice. When I asked her why she hadn't just predicted this in advance and made arrangements, she just blushed and went to talk to Archie. She probably didn't even realise I was joking. Anyway, Archie set up the residence with enough wards to make any potential intruder think twice about their life of crime, so we won't have to worry about security.

So here I am, writing this. Tomorrow we set off, and I'll probably go exploring tonight. I can't sleep, and this town is my best chance to learn a bit more about where I am before we abandon civilization to go raid some tombs. Besides, I hear shawarmas are cheap here, and unlike Archie I can't live on tea and biscuits alone. I asked Moriah if she wanted to accompany me, but she said something about a lack of sleep eventually resulting in her death tomorrow and refused.

Well, here's your chance to impress me, Egypt. Don't go wasting it.


	3. Second Entry

I hate sand.

I fucking hate sand.

Yes, I'm aware that this is a journal and there's no need to write it twice, but I'll do it anyway. In fact, I'll do it again just for emphasis:

I hate the very idea of a bunch of different rocks being ground up until they're fine enough to slip through anything, and then spread out over an entire _fucking_ continent. It is as abhorrent to me as pedophilia or bestiality would be to an ordinary man with ordinary morals. If I could have the Holy Grail in my hands now, I'd wish to reach the Root, but my second wish would definitely be to get rid of all this stupid, bloody sand.

Okay. Anger is over. Can't crumple the paper now. No more vulgarity, you're a professional. Back to business.

In any case, a great many things happened today. I wouldn't call them all positive developments, but when taken as a whole they've left me feeling rather sunny. So sunny, in fact, that I wish I could just see a single damn cloud. All day this sun has been bearing down on me, with only some temporary shade to stave off the dull heat.

It's enough to drive a man mad, and I'm not making a figure of speech here, though I wish I was. There've been stories of people brought to the brink by that ever burning disk. Tales of blinded men claiming that they saw the Root of the world in the center of the sky, of those who found themselves in oases while approaching death. The vast majority are just that, tales, but I've no doubt that a few approach the edge of truth. I just hope I never have to find out first hand which aren't false.

After a night of wandering aimlessly and eating some decidedly not cheap shawarmas, I went back to the dwelling and caught some shut-eye on a mattress as thin as the rug in front of my office door. I woke up far too soon for my liking, with no one warming my rather uncomfortable bed. My wakeup call was Archie's baritone yell, and I barely had enough time to scarf down a breakfast of crackers that tasted like cardboard before we were off to our next destination.

In this case, we only had to walk a short distance before we came to an oddly-shaped jeep that wouldn't have looked out of place in the army. In fact, upon looking at the multitude of scratches in the shape of the _Balkenkreuz_ on each door and the tire strapped to the front instead of the back, all reservations as to what its origins were vanished completely. On the bright side, it had a roof.

The little lady spoke to the turbaned man watching the car in Arabic while Archie and I waited by the jeep. He frowned as he noticed the scratches.

"What's wrong, chief? Don't want to use a vehicle designed by the enemy?"

He didn't reply immediately, and when he did it was in a manner I didn't expect. "No," he said. "Actually, I'm quite relieved."

"Relieved? Where's all the patriotism? This little jeep is part of the reason we're losing the war."

"We are not losing," he snapped at me. "You read the letter. The course of the war will shift towards our victory in the next few days. It's already been three years. If the Axis wanted to win, they should have captured England before the end of the second." He looked at the jeep again, and his gaze softened and hardened simultaneously. I don't really know how to describe it.

He looked at me with that same, searching expression. "Tell me, what would you trust more: A weapon created by your ally, or a weapon created by your enemy?"

It caught me off guard, and I didn't have enough time to come up with a good answer. "The one made by my pal, I suppose," I said.

"Then you would be wrong," Archie sniffed. "Your friend created this weapon to help you. The effort he can put into making that weapon is limited to the amount of value your life holds in his eyes. Your enemy, however, is making this weapon to kill you, or rather, to save his own life. In that case it is obvious which will be superior. You can be sure that your enemy will put everything he has into that weapon so that he may live to see the next day. That difference in belief will lead to your demise. Any competent magus would tell you the same thing."

He turned away again. "So that, Scribe, is why I am relieved. This machine contains the desperate will of someone who has been pushed against the wall and forced to outdo himself to survive. It is the most suitable vehicle for us."

Strange guy. Well, at least he's a better talker than the last one who hired me.

I walked over to Moriah, who was in the middle of negotiating with the turbaned man. When I arrived, he was sweating bullets and had completely lost his cool. Spotting me, he smiled like he'd seen a goddess and rushed to my side.

"Customer!" he said in broken English. "Yes, good, good! I have best deals for you! Please buy!"

"We're looking to rent, actually," I said.

"Yes, rent, very good! You get _Kübelwagen_, it take you anywhere! Please give good price! Not like thief girl! Trust me, not her, yes! I will not rob your corpse!"

I shot a desperate glance at Moriah. The man was even shorter than her and half my size, but he had a vice grip on my hands and I didn't want to reinforce myself to get out.

She pried his hand off my wrist and spoke firmly to the man in Arabic once more. He looked at me, then back to her, and seemed to deflate as he realized we were travelling together.

Moriah reached into the sheaf of bills that Archie had given us, and removed three, placing the rest in… well, I'm not sure where. Her clothes didn't really seem like they would be able to have pockets. The salesman barely reacted when she pressed the bills into his hand. We walked off with me confused.

"What did you do to him?" I asked.

She allowed herself a small smile. "It was foretold that I would win us a 75% price drop from this man. It was also foretold that he would go to sleep today in a very bad mood."

So, after packing all of our things and extra gas, who do you think booted up the jeep and drove it out into a road barely indistinguishable from the desert surrounding it? Was it me, who's covered enough distance through car chases to ride from one side of London to the other? Was it Archie, the man with enough pride to boil a cup of water simply by commanding it?

Moriah let out a little laugh as the jeep leapt over a dune, getting almost a second of air time before landing as softly as a kitten on carpet. She gave the wheel only the lightest of taps and the car changed direction, moving us so the sun was behind instead of to our right. That damnable sand flew every which way, blown about by the winds and getting into everything except the jeep itself. Archie, who had protested until told that this would be the fastest way, put another biscuit in his mouth and chewed, not in the least impressed by the stunts we were pulling. I could tell he was aching to give out a reprimand, but he wasn't in his element. The Guide is responsible for transportation and all matters of the destination. All the Magus has to do is boss everyone around.

I'll admit it. The ride was fun. Moriah had said our trip would be uneventful, and she was right. We didn't see a single soul during the entire drive. Several seemingly random shifts in direction took us around army patrols, other groups of magi, and hidden minefields, each one gleefully predicted by our young Guide before they even showed up. This was probably the real her, unfettered by her Atlas training or knowledge of the future.

Eventually the crystal blue Nile came into view, followed by our destination.

"This is it," Archie said as he stumbled from the jeep, kept upright only by willpower and his jewelled cane. "Welcome to the Valley of Kings."

I mentioned the town from earlier being almost entirely carved from rock and mud. This was that town a thousand years later, abandoned by its inhabitants and slowly swallowed up by the desert. Stone buildings stood half buried in the stand, while others could be mistaken for dunes until approached and revealed to be buried tombs, their entrances only barely visible. Trails led from one major site to another. Some tombs had been fully uncovered, some were still buried, and others were in a state between, as if frozen in the process of being unearthed.

There were obvious traces of campfires here and there, and other evidence that revealed just how quickly the war had vacated the valley. A metal cup found at the entrance of one tomb. A hastily scrawled map fluttering in the wind. Even the torn up letter I found crushed under a rock told a story of archaeologists franticly running while trying to take all their knowledge with them, to the point of sacrificing basic necessities.

I was having doubts, however. "Say Archie, why are we at this valley and not the Pyramids? Didn't the letter say the event would take place there and not here?"

"…_Archie_?"

"Merely a slip of the tongue. Still, why here and not there?"

He looked at me suspiciously for a few moments before answering. "The letter indicated that besides the event in Giza, there would be a spike of prana some hours before, occurring here. If you look at it objectively, it's obvious that this would be where the actual event occurs. What happens at the Pyramids would only be the symptom."

"That's still a big assumption to make, isn't it?"

"It is, but he is correct," Moriah spoke up. "There is a greater chance of this being the important site. Besides, the other location will be flooded by magi. The likelihood of us being overwhelmed and killed before being stripped of our possessions is fairly high in that region. Here, however, it is almost empty. We will be facing less competition."

Well, that's more than good enough for me, thank you very much.

"Now then," Archie said, looking at the countless tombs just waiting to be raided. "I think it's time for you two to earn your keep."

The plan was that we would peruse each tomb's inscriptions, searching for something out of the ordinary, most likely a secret passage of some sort. It wasn't mentioned in the letter, but we all agreed it could be nothing else. The Valley has been looted heavily for centuries, with our own archaeologists finishing the job decades ago. If there's anything dangerous here, it would have survived all those years undetected and unmoved, and the only way for that to happen would be if there was a tomb so secret, so hidden, that no thief could find it.

To make a long story short: There was progress. Not much, but it's definitely something we can look at and be reasonably proud of. At the end of the day, we still have a good week until our time runs out, and Archie is certain that we'll be done in five days, no doubt because he's imagining spending the other two drinking tea and being smug about getting that reward. Cleopatra says it'll be a miracle if we finish an hour before the time limit, but I say bollocks to that. She just enjoys being pessimistic and prophesising doom to anyone who'll listen. Personally I think most of her predictions are more like educated guesses. In her case, _really_ educated guesses.

Me? I have no idea, but at least I'm being honest about it.

As for the progress itself, it's nothing to write home about, though I'll nonetheless record it. We managed to narrow down the likely location of the hidden passage from the entire Valley to just a few tombs, though the rout we took to arrive at that conclusion was circuitous at best, and sheer coincidence at worst. Little Nefertiti says the trick isn't finding the entrance, but figuring out how to get it open. We obviously can't just have Archie blast everything, as much as I'd love that, so we're banking on the hope that the magi behind it put more effort into hiding the entrance than they did into securing it. I hope they at least had the decency to put up a ward against sand. I don't think I'd be able to take a full week of the stuff without capping myself.

Not that it'd even work. Sand has jammed all of the magazine based guns, and it's gotten into Miss Jane too. I spent several hours cleaning out each magazine by hand and I still only got through a half dozen. If push comes to shove they'll still work, but I'm just as likely to end up with a melted lump of steel and a mass of shrapnel in my hand as I am to actually get a shot off, and with magic guns, I really don't want to take that kind of risk. The grenades are fine, and Miss Daisy is holding up surprisingly well, so I'm not completely without my armory, only most of the heavy stuff. Sand just makes everything that much more tedious.

Even the 'progress' was tedious. It was mostly just our little alchemist wandering over to various tombs, looking at hieroglyphs, and translating them while I wrote down everything she said. And she said some very strange things, many of which I suspect were added much later than the original hieroglyphs. A few of the glyphs have been completely worn away by the passage of time, and only a handful had any sort of protection to keep them intact, in addition to all the awkwardly placed ones stuck on the ceiling. Giving a girl of barely 19 a ride on your back while she tries to read something from a language she scarcely understands is not my idea of a picnic. I don't even want to mention the dozens of symbols that had been added by grave robbers over the years as graffiti. Actually, I do. They were hilarious. Here's one of the more memorable exchanges:

_"This king sleeps like the dead, so his possessions are mine to take."_

_"Your mother sleeps like the dead, so your life is mine to take."_

_"She wasn't sleeping like the dead last night, you cowpat licker."_

_"Aye, because you were fooling around with her corpse. May Ra curse thee!"_

Yes, it seems even 4000 years ago, insults were still as dumb as they are now.

There was also one incident that I figure is worth writing down. I won't put it into evidence, but this is my personal journal, and I'm not omitting anything even if Archie complains. He hired me, so he has to put up with the rules of the contract. Two journals. One for me, one for him.

The barrier put up around the site is supposed to keep away mundanes and make sure soldiers don't get close enough to be a bother, but it's purposefully made to be useless against anyone with the slightest amount of training in magecraft. Luckily, Archie set it up so that it would let him sense any intruders immediately. This helped when twelve or so fellows just waltzed on through without warning.

The Guide and I were on the opposite end of the Valley looking at the outsides of several empty tombs when it happened. Thanks to the linked spell we all sensed it, along with the fact that our benefactor was closest to the intruders. I'd say it was karmic relief for sitting around doing nothing all day, but really it was because he'd be next to useless for the kind of work we were doing. In any case, we promptly forgot about translations and rushed to him. If Archie bit the dust, so did our payment. Well, my payment. Moriah (I only really know two female Egyptian names, so the nicknames are done) never did say what he was offering _her_.

It only took a minute of running over that blasted sand before we reached Archie and our 'guests'. He sat on his folding chair with his umbrella positioned to blot out the sun, while a semicircle of eleven rather ratty people surrounded him, with, of all things, a nun leading them, heavy dark clothes and all. Even wearing light clothing and staying in the shade all day had left me simultaneously dehydrated and soaked, but I couldn't even begin to guess how much worse it would be in her place. Of course, she looked fine. Must be a rich person thing. Even Moriah was sweating in the sun, but Archie and the nun didn't have a hair out of place.

"Are these the ones you mentioned?" she asked my employer, not even bothering to try and disguise her French accent. "Two is not a powerful number in these parts."

"Yes," he replied smoothly, pausing to take a sip of tea before continuing. "But three is one of the most powerful numbers in the world, and always will be. Unlike some people, a magus does not base the number of people in his retinue on an arbitrary number. Twelve? Really? Do you think you can manage that many underlings, Sister?"

As a side note, while it's impossible to convey the exact intricacies of Lord Lysander Octavius Archibald's accent through text, and I've no wish to attempt such a Herculean task, know that it is very, very, _very_ British.

"A baker's dozen is no mere number. It is the number of bread rolls one buys, bread being the most basic of foods. The son of the Lord could feed the world with that many loaves."

"And you can feed an orphanage, I'm sure," Archibald sneered. He lowered the cup of tea to the small table at his side and rose to his feet. Of course he wore a formal suit in the middle of the desert. When it comes to magi common sense doesn't really apply. He tapped the cane in his hands against the dirt three times. "But enough about trivialities. Why are you here? And why have you brought this … motley crew of people with you?"

One of the men, probably a native, spoke up. I don't speak a lick of Arabic, but he sounded pretty angry. He made a few gestures and pointed at us half a dozen times.

From my left, Moriah replied in the same language. In quick, clipped tones she delivered her message, and the man's face turned red in anger. He started yelling again, this time at her.

My hand grasped the butt of Miss Daisy, and I saw Archibald's hand tighten on his cane. If this got bad…

"Enough, Abdul," the Sister hushed him. "We have no business with these people, just as they have no business with us. There shall be no questioning, on either side."

But he wasn't about to back down. Something had angered him. He yelled at Moriah again, and she repeated the last part of her previous sentence.

"What is he saying?" I whispered to her.

She whispered back, "he is angry that Lord Archibald insulted the Lady. The man demands an apology."

"Tell him it isn't happening."

She did, and it only angered him more. In seconds he had drawn forth a ceremonial knife and was about to slash with it.

A sharp crack and a moment later his neatly severed hand fell to the floor, where the earth opened up and swallowed the limb while his knife spun circles through the air. The man dropped to his knees, gripping the stump of his forearm tightly and evidently doing his best not to scream. Beside me, Moriah's fingers folded shut, and I glimpsed a glimmer folding into her palm out of the corner of my eye. I replaced my revolver in its holster. The twisted mess of a bullet I had fired landed softly next to my sandals.

"He would not have attacked," the Sister said. She didn't sound angry, though. More like disappointed. In us, or her ally? I'm not sure. Her companions looked more incensed, but unlike Abdul, they didn't make any aggressive moves.

"He still drew his Mystic Code," Archibald replied. "As a magus, he should have been prepared for this outcome. You should be thanking us for our mercy in sparing your man's life. Or will you waste more of your men on us? You do need those… natives to tell you where your destination is, as well as actually digging once you get there, so I'd argue that you should treasure them more."

The Sister frowned. I saw the anger warring for attention underneath the surface of that beautiful face, but it quickly disappeared. You don't get to a position like hers by letting your vices control you. "I shall take your advice into account," was all she said. "In return, I'll give you some of my own. You were not the first to come here. Several groups have already passed through this area."

As one, the group marched past us. A few, Abdul included, shot us dirty glares, but only I responded in kind. I can't help myself, really. A guy looks at you funny, you look at him even funnier until he laughs or backs off. There are guys who make a living on looking scary. Granted, I'm not one of them, but it never hurts to get some practice in. Within minutes they disappeared over the horizon, heading deeper into the Valley while we remained camped near the edge of the Nile.

"Should we follow them?" I asked once I was sure we weren't being spied upon.

Archibald shook his head. "No, let them go. They know even less than us, despite many having grown up in these parts. If years of local living couldn't find what we're looking for, then those years were wasted. We shall let the Church chase its own tail for now." He sat down on his chair again, adjusting the umbrella after a moment to account for the setting sun.

Moriah took it as a sign for her to report. "We've narrowed it down," she said, pulling out a map of the Valley. Most of the tombs were covered in crosses, signifying probable hiding spots. Only a section near the tomb of Amenhotep IV and some of the West Valley (the part with fewer tombs) was left untouched. "First, we can confirm the Sister's claim that others were here. We found several tracks and used them to narrow down the search. Almost all of the tombs we visited had been searched, except…" She pointed to the blank area. "We checked it earlier, and we can confirm that this place doesn't have what we're looking for. We can safely discard it."

My turn. "No one's been there, so there's no reason for us to take a look. We should focus on the tombs that have seen more traffic, since they're more likely to contain what we're looking for."

Archie took a sip of his drink. "Are you two sane?" he asked.

Moriah and I exchanged a look. "Nothing but. You hired us, remember?"

"Really. Because it seems to me that you two are acting in a most illogical manner." He rose, tapping his cane on the ground a few times as he did so. "Tell me, what would you say if I were to tell you we were going to be focusing all of our attention on this 'useless area'?" He pointed the tip of the cane at the area of the map completely free of marks.

"Don't," I said, in complete sync with Moriah. "There's nothing there."

Archie nodded. "Of course."

In a single moment, the ground became quicksand. I sank almost a meter into the suddenly fluid floor, and in seconds was covered up to the waist in sand and dirt, my hands pinned to my sides. I glanced to my right to see Moriah in a similar situation.

"Archie, what the hell is wrong with you!?"

"Do not call me that," he said. Archibald nudged my chin up with his foot, looking me in the eye with that irritating gaze of his. "I expected better from you. The girl, I can understand, but you should have been able to avoid such a trap."

Was he insane? Had the heat gotten to him, snapped his mind somehow? I tried to reach my gun, but my hand might as well have been pushing against solid rock. I couldn't do anything.

"Hold still," Archibald commanded. "And be thankful for my presence here. Without it, you two would have been trapped in that ridiculous trick for the rest of your lives."

His cane struck my forehead with the force of a bullet. I felt colours invert and my stomach bloating with bile and blood before the world returned to normal suddenly. Incredibly dizzy, I barely controlled the sudden urge to vomit onto the ground.

The ground pushed me up until I was on my knees. I heard another dull thud, and Moriah was sprawled next to me a few seconds later.

"Now," Archie said after returning to his seat. "What do you think of that area?"

"It's suspicious. Too suspicious," I said after catching my breath. And it was. What had I been thinking? We needed to look everywhere, even if the probability of us finding what we needed was low. What had gotten into me?

"The passage must be there," Moriah gasped. "That trap… did you release us from the spell?"

"Yes," Archie said. "A clever trap, I'll admit. Rather than announcing its presence it simply plants a suggestion into the minds of those investigating, telling them to leave and go somewhere else. You two didn't even have your circuits active, I assume?"

I couldn't meet his eyes.

"Of course." He sighed. "Well, the damage is done. At least we're aware of it now. Can I assume you won't be trapped again?"

We nodded.

"Good. Now, tell me what you found. There should be more than this."

Moriah spoke first while I got to my feet and started wiping sand from my clothes. "Based on… firsthand evidence, it's highly likely that the hidden passage is in this tomb and covered by a layered ward with several separate effects, including some that will passively shift others away from it and more that clear away anything that would make it look out of place. The ward would draw from the Nile's major ley line, thus being able to sustain itself for thousands of years without trouble. This also explains how previous magical expeditions here failed to find anything significant."

Archibald nodded. "Can you break the ward?"

Moriah paused. I'm fairly sure that whenever she does that she's really just doing that one crazy thing she can do. Something about partitions or dividing the brain processes. In any case, it's usually over quickly, but this time it took her ten whole seconds to come up with an answer.

"Yes," she finally said. "I should be able to, if I know where it is and am sure of its existence. But it will take most of the night. I recommend you get some sleep. We can enter tomorrow. I will work on it now, as… an apology."

Archie nodded, accepting it. He looked to me and I shook my head. No way, pal. Not saying sorry to you, even if you did save my ass.

He frowned and said nothing. Taking it as permission to leave, I began to set up our camp site on top of the ruins of an old one.

This is it, I suppose. The last night breathing outside air. As bad as the sand out here is, I'm betting it'll be even worse in there. Cramped, dark, crawling with bugs and all sorts of disgusting creatures… it's the stuff of nightmares, it is. If there are more spells like the one we just encountered… I don't want to think about it. Just going into the tombs made me feel like I was chocking, but this'll be about a hundred times worse. Or maybe the ancient Egyptian magi were nice enough to make a spell to keep the air fresh. I can always hope.

Several hours later, when the sun had long since sunk underneath the ground and I'd finally managed to clear the last grains of sand from my boots, Lord Archie issued his royal decree.

"Go away," he told me. "Go to the tombs. Go take a bath in the river. Just stay away from the camp site. I refuse to have to suffer through your continuous attempts to render me insomniac. If you wish to clean those bullets of yours as noisily as possible, go do it somewhere else!"

I looked up from the partially disassembled gun in my hands. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious!" Looks like I've finally found his weakness. You can put Archie through anything and he'll be fine, but take away from his beauty sleep and you've got a cranky old chap to deal with instead. "Go, go! Perhaps you can keep that _native_ company so she doesn't steal everything that isn't tied down."

Sometimes I feel good when I can successfully predict how much of an asshole a person is before I even get the chance to talk to him. With old Archie? It's just tiring, even though 'tiring' is what pays my bills these days.

Making my way to the site of our supposed secret entrance, I was stopped momentarily as several dull booms snaked their way through the air. For a moment I thought the Sister had lied, and was ambushing me, but it only took me a second to figure out what it was. Artillery. The Allies and Axis were shelling each other hundreds of kilometres away, with Egypt stuck in the crossfire. I don't count myself as one of those infected by the Egyptology fever, but walking along the hastily abandoned excavation site must've rubbed off on me, because the thought of priceless history being destroyed by people trying to kill each other just doesn't seem right.

What I noticed next, though, was most definitely not shelling.

By the faint light of my torch I barely saw it. At first I mistook it for the flickering shadows called forth by the flames, but after a minute or two of walking it began to make itself known to me. There was a certain artificial nature to the movements. A stiffened limb here, a sharp crack that could have been burning wood but instead sounded more like old bone, and thousand year old cloth fluttering in the lightest breeze. Something was here, by my side. Above? Below? Behind? Or perhaps right in front of me, completely invisible to my inferior vision.

I heard a dusty laugh and words whispered in a language I couldn't understand.

I whirled. I reinforced my vision, wincing at the pain from the inexpert spell, and swung my torch from side to side, but saw nothing, heard nothing, and felt nothing. By all accounts, it was most likely a hallucination, caused by tension or fear. I slowly calmed down, my heart rate slowing as I rationally explained away my fear.

Then the hand grabbed my foot.

I didn't scream, though I came quite close. The hand poking out of the sand grasped my leg with the strength of a dying man, almost crushing my ankle. I lifted my leg, but the hand wasn't attached to an arm and easily popped out of the sand. My other leg came up and went down, stomping on the offending limb with all the desperation of someone who doesn't know what the hell is going on.

In moments, the hand was a mess. I'd broken a dozen bones, leaving it looking more like an alien limb than something a human could have. Breathing hard, I was about to return and report when I realized just what it was.

Abdul's hand. The one Moriah sliced off. The one Archibald had swallowed up into the earth.

Never mind. He's not an asshole. He's a vengeful asshole. And if he thinks he's getting an apology for saving me, he's got another thing coming. So here's your apology, Archie. But it's in here, where you'll never get a chance to read it.

I've figured out the hand, but there's something still bugging me about what I heard before it. That voice earlier… it was a hallucination, right?

No, it wasn't. I know what I saw, or rather, I know that what I saw was real, even if I cannot say what it is. As I write this, I'm debating whether or not to go back and erase this event from my journal. I cannot call it anything concrete despite this feeling, and the possibility that I was hallucinating still exists. Yet this journal is my truth. If nothing else, it holds my feelings and important memories. If this is important enough for me to write it down, then it can't be nothing. Tomorrow I'll ask Moriah. Perhaps she'll know of some legend or scripture that explains this.

Speaking of Moriah, by the time I finally got to the secret entrance (after punting that damned hand into the stratosphere) I spotted her leaning against the chiselled wall with her head hanging down, snoring lightly. A burning torch lay on the ground a short distance away and I saw several sheets of paper scattered about, patterns of hieroglyphs scrawled all over.

Poor kid. Probably never been on a real expedition before. In a job like this, sleep is a luxury.

After I woke Moriah up she apologized and went right back to work on deciphering the wards. That cold attitude of hers is surprisingly sturdy, even if I saw her blush a few times when glancing in my direction every few minutes. She was probably thankful for some company. Even I was on edge, so for her it must have been even worse. (I'm not mentioning Archie, because he's probably still drinking that damn tea of his, and I hope he chokes on it.)

I positioned myself against a wall a few meters away from Moriah and got out this journal. Tonight I'm writing everything down manually, but I won't be able to do that once we go underground. From tomorrow, I'm activating the passive Scribing spell. It's going to be a drain on my prana, but one I'll be able to afford if I'm careful with the rest.

A minute passed without conversation, only the silent scratches of us writing our respective reports. A minute too long, I think.

"So," I began. The sound of Moriah's writing stopped. I looked up to see her staring back at me with those strange eyes of hers. "What do you think of this whole expedition? I know that fucker is thrilled even though he tries to hide it, but I haven't been able to get a bead on you." I wanted to ask why she'd been hired despite an entire collection of older, likely more experienced alchemists available right next door, but I figure it would be better to ask Archie once I no longer want to punch him in the face.

She did her thought partition thing again before replying. "I think of it as atonement," she said at least. "For something my family has done. This will erase that sin."

"Kind of a strange motivation for an alchemist, isn't it? Aren't you supposed to be more logical than that?"

She shook her head. "No," she said. "This is logical. These feelings of mine will not go away through numbers or calculations. For an illogical problem, you need an illogical solution. You are logical, and I like that. A service provided for money. It's simple, easy to understand."

"I wish. Being broke is a bit too simple, I think." Then again, it's not my fault that half my employers end up biting the dust before they can pay me. It comes with the job.

"Hm." Looks like she didn't have a response to that. There was more silence for a few moments before she spoke again. "How many is in a dozen?"

I… what? "Twelve," I said. "Why?"

"The nun. There were twelve of them in total, but… she said a baker's dozen."

I frowned and folded up my journal. "So?"

Moriah bit her lip. I could tell she was debating internally whether to speak and possibly look like a fool, or keep it to herself and retain some semblance of pride. In the end, curiosity won out. "A baker's dozen refers to thirteen. It is named for the extra loaf of bread sold to people in order to ensure there are no complaints."

My blood ran cold. We both understood the implication. A thirteenth member of her party, one that none of us had detected. The Sister had been the merciful one, not us. If she wanted to, she could have slit our throats from behind without us ever realizing a thing.

"Forget about it," I said, my voice only a little dry. "We don't have to worry about that. Let's just get this ward broken." She nodded and went back to work, only the periodic glances into the dark night remaining as a sign of her apprehension.

I would like to talk to her more, but it can't be done. She has to focus completely on her job, and I…

I'll spend tonight staring into the empty valley, looking at sand and darkness.


	4. Third Entry (Part One)

Today I woke up with a scorpion on my crotch.

A strange way to begin an entry, isn't it? A bit racy, some might say, or just downright inappropriate. Perhaps, but I feel that of everything that happened today, that one sentence perfectly describes the entire experience. Today was like waking up and realizing there's something terrifying about to hit you where it hurts.

The first sight I witnessed upon opening my eyes today was a yellow-green arthropod perched precariously on my utensils. I can say with certainty that a scream did not pass through my lips, but I might have let out a rather unmanly squeak. The creature's beady little eyes looked up, and I swear they met my own for a moment.

A bang echoed throughout the entrance of the tomb. The scorpion flew off my body and splattered against the wall behind it. I scrambled to my feet, pocketing Miss Daisy and sweating, not because of the heat this time. Thanks, Daisy. I'm fairly sure this is the second time you've saved me from getting eunuch'd, although I can't really recall the first at the moment. You and hours of training my quick draw as if I'm some kind of cowboy.

A few meters away, Moriah poked her head out from within the tomb. "Is there a problem?" she asked.

"Uh, no, nothing."

"I heard a gunshot."

"Works better than coffee if you want to wake up fast." It really does. The only problem is that you'll end up deafening yourself if you keep it up. Then again, compared to those poor soldiers a few hundred kilometres away, I have it easy. Them? They sleep, eat, and shit while having to put up with the constant rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire, with the whistles and pops of artillery livening up the discordant harmony. At the same time, one cannot discount the fact that my eardrums will certainly be suffering for the next few hours.

"I am finished with my analysis," she said. "Could you fetch Lord Archibald?"

"Of course. Just sit tight." I threw the spent casing of the bullet at another scorpion that quickly hissed and scarpered around a wall, before loading another one into Miss Daisy. This had absolutely nothing to do with me needing to deal with Archie again. Not one bit.

I worked out the kinks in my back, arms, and neck on the way to the campsite. When I arrived, I found the tent I'd set up last night covered with enough wards to incinerate an elephant.

I won't record how I managed to wake Archie up, only that it involved what's well on its way to becoming the most traumatic experience of my life that I can still remember at the moment. He was grumpy, as usual, but the news was enough to put him in a good mood. Sometimes, magi are ridiculously complicated and make no sense. Sometimes, though, they enjoy simple things.

On the way back to the tomb, I broached a question that had been on my mind ever since our arrival in Egypt.

"So, why did you hire me specifically, sir?"

The polite language did little to soften his mood. "It certainly was not to ask questions," he replied. "If you want to keep our relation strictly one of business, you would do well to refrain from pointless probes concerning the circumstances of your hiring."

The first one had been merely a ploy, though. It was the second question that I was really curious about. "Fair enough, but I'll ask one more anyway. Why Moriah?"

"Who?"

"The Guide." Of course he wouldn't have bothered remembering her name.

"Oh yes, the native. What about her?"

"Why did you hire her? She's barely out of her teens. I'm not going to insult her abilities, but there's no denying that she's young, too young even. If you're a fool, you hire two complete rookies. If you're smart, then it's an experienced Scribe and a Guide who's seen her fair share of expeditions. Instead, you took a novice and a veteran. It doesn't fit."

He was silent for a few moments, and I'd call his reply unclear at best. "For posterity," he said. "Besides, you more than make up for her relative lack of empirical knowledge, and her pedigree is rather impressive from a liberal point of view. I do my research, Scribe. Perhaps you should as well. It would certainly help with your annoying habit of needling."

When we arrived at the tomb, Moriah presented Archie with a list of findings while she explained how the wards worked. I will not pretend that I could comprehend everything she said, but Archie certainly seemed to understand it well enough. From what I can gather, there were several layered wards, each keyed into an underlying system that observed outside stimuli and activated certain functions in response to various actions. Wards for illusions, compulsions, and even some that would materialize a few metric tons of sandstone on top of the offending intruder made up the bulk of it, with other, more esoteric ones beyond even our Guide's comprehension.

"With our skills, breaking through these bounded fields will take weeks, if it's even possible," she explained. "They are simply too well built, and the age difference is not going to help us here. I would recommend that we instead bypass them altogether."

"Bypass?" Archie asked. "Is that even possible? I don't believe the magi that built this place would be foolish enough to leave an obvious flaw in their work."

"Not a flaw, but rather a system to deactivate the wards. A back door, if you will. There must be a way to get inside without having to go through the tedious process of breaking down and building up all these wards. I've already determined that they aren't keyed into any one person's magic signature or a corporeal object, so it's only logical that there is a certain stimulus which will 'open the door', so to speak."

"A password," I chimed in. "Gotta be verbal. Even with these hieroglyphs, people back then were big on passing on information through spoken words. That way, even illiterate peasants could participate." Oral tradition. It's nice, but I still prefer a nice handwritten journal to devour.

"Prayer as well," Moriah continued, not missing a beat. "The reign of Amhotep IV was marked by a sudden attempt to shift the thousand year old religion to a new one that worshipped one god exclusively. Perhaps…"

"Perhaps we have it," Archie said. "Here, read this." He took a sheaf of papers from his satchel after pocketing the one Moriah had given him. It was well worn, with markers every few pages and dog-ears everywhere. He fished a single page from the mess and handed it to Moriah. I spotted a sentence outlined in red ink (I hope it was ink) halfway down, but in a foreign language that looked like a very simplified form of the hieroglyphs we'd been looking at all day.

"Where did you-?"

"A certain thesis," he said. "That is all. Hurry up. We're on a tight schedule."

She read it. I won't pretend to understand what the phrase meant, but it certainly sounded important. Evidently, the person who'd set up the wards thousands of years ago must've agreed with me, because as soon as the last syllable escaped our Guide's lips, the entire tomb started rumbling. Sand and dust rained down, making me glad that I hadn't entered that cramped, badly lit place. I felt something shift under my feet, and the air took on a distinctive tang indicating the presence of powerful magic. The spell wove itself, driven by countless other spells in a system that would take any modern magus years to decipher.

Then, the inside of the tomb vanished.

Perhaps that was an inaccurate statement. It didn't vanish, but when we looked through the small doorway, it no longer led to a cramped, dark area that would barely hold a half dozen people and one empty sarcophagus. Instead, it was as if we'd stumbled into the entrance to a palace. I saw an endless hallway of sandstone with branches every dozen meters. Fresh carvings that had never known wind or wear painted the walls, while inset gemstones of blue and red gave off a feeling of royalty that the other tombs never had. Oh, and it was large enough to fit a Spitfire height and length-wise with room to spare, indicating a substantial amount of space manipulation.

Archie didn't even try to hide his smug grin.

We packed our bags and set off without a fuss. I think Archie was too excited at the thought of plumbing the secret passage's depths to argue or make ridiculous demands. Moriah didn't even wait for us. She just stepped through after giving us fifteen minutes until the opening closed, and started examining the wall carvings with the fervor of a magus in her element. I suppose this makes me the only one not looking forward to this expedition.

A few minutes later I lugged in our bags, with Archie bringing up the rear. He set up wards of his own in front of the entrance, presumably for keeping other explorers out of _his_ discovery. Minutes later, the way inside closed, turning our entrance and exit into a blank wall, although Moriah assured us she could open it again at any time using the same pass phrase. The sudden disappearance of the ever present compulsion trying to affect my mind was very welcome, nonetheless.

As I set up torches to keep the area lit (I wasn't going to be wasting any prana on this), I asked Moriah to repeat the sentence that had opened the wards.

"Why?" she asked. "You cannot speak the language, much less understand it."

"Perhaps, but there's no harm in humouring me."

She did. Her words were just as incomprehensible as they had been the first time, but I was ready for them. I've written down a transcript here, and I'll be able to use it later if we ever lose our Guide to a trap or one of those Church folk and I need to make a quick escape. We've got the jeep hidden under Archie's wards and spelled to only be visible to one of the group, so I can always grab it and hope there's enough extra gas to take me back to the village, assuming I can find the way back through a featureless desert.

Not exactly the best fallback plan, but it'll do in a pinch.

"By the way, what does it mean?"

"The phrase? Something along the lines of: _Praise the sun, praise the life it gives, praise Aten the omnipotent who rids us of the night's terrors_."

Creepy bastards, those Ancient Egyptians.

After we sorted out the unimportant things, all that remained was the dull work of deciphering the wall carvings and proceeding along the seemingly endless maze of halls in search of whatever it is we're looking for. Unfortunately, this isn't some small temple or a simple tomb that even mundane could rob. We were in the sanctum of a magus, or worse… a god.

"We stay here for the time being," Archie said, sitting in that folding chair and poring over Moriah's notes. "I've made some familiars of the local wildlife, so there's no need to risk our lives exploring blindly." I'm not sure what was more surprising, the idea that he'd actually done something actively, or the fact that this is the first time a Magus has ever had the perfectly reasonable idea of sending in a familiar before going himself.

A scorpion crawled over my foot, and I resisted the urge to squash it and a tiny piece of Archie's soul into paste. Seconds later a mixed menagerie of small desert creatures had made its way past us, swiftly disappearing down the dark hall and its numerous branches. I spotted snakes, lizards, a few small foxes with large ears, and at least ten more scorpions, one dragging its body forward on half the legs it should have had.

It was a good idea, I'll admit.

It was also a boring one.

The next few hours were spent much like the previous day, except in a much more cramped area. The hieroglyphs turned out to be worthless in every way imaginable and lacked even crude graffiti to liven things up. I was too wary of curses to grab any of the inset gemstones for myself, even after Moriah insisted that there would be none.

According to her, the Egyptians never put damnations or cursed on their tombs, instead preferring more corporeal methods of defense. I think she's just biased. Everyone's heard of King Tut's curse, even me. Besides, dead Kings might not be vengeful, but magi are, and whoever came up with those wards didn't seem like the type to let their precious belongings be pillaged without a fight.

Soon enough, I was proved right.

"Scribe, I've lost the connection with one of my familiars. Investigate."

I let Moriah off my shoulders. "Should I accompany him?" she asked.

"No. He is expendable. You are not."

"How pragmatic of you." I muttered under my breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

He ignored my quip. "I'll be sending one of my spare familiars with you. It will tell you where to go. Try not to get lost. From what I've gathered, this place is much bigger on the inside. I haven't detected any traps or bounded fields, but tread carefully nonetheless."

I waved off his concerns. Truth be told, I was glad for the change of pace. There's a certain feeling one can capture only when alone in the depths of a long dead culture's history, when the air is dusty and the darkness surrounds you, and all you hear is the crackle of the fire in your hands, the dull footsteps you leave behind, and your heart trying to beat its way out of your chest.

I love that feeling.

I set off down the hall with a torch in one hand and Miss Daisy in the other. The light and relative safety afforded to me by out small encampment quickly faded, leaving only me and the dark halls of the dead. A small desert mouse perched on my shoulder and squeaked directions into my ear, quickly confusing me. Left, right, left, left… at least a dozen turnings passed me by without incident, each one that much more painful to take.

The carvings changed. At the entrance it had been mostly hieroglyphs and some generic illustrations, but the deeper I went, the stranger they became. Men climbing a pyramid, prostrating themselves before a disk in the sky, and eventually warring on each other while the disk watched. The disk itself became less of a crude shape and more of an all-seeing eye, watching my every movement without blinking once, even as the scenes surrounding it became more and more graphic.

A solid half hour into my trek, the torch had burnt down to almost nothing right after the latest left turn. I had just extinguished it and was about to reach into my bag for another when I heard the voices.

I froze, and reinforced my hearing as far as I dared to. It wasn't enough. I caught murmurs and half formed words. Only slightly more than the breath of air the initial sounds had been. A spell, most likely, to mute noise, but it must've been badly done if I'd noticed.

The mouse on my shoulder gave a small squeak, barely visible in the darkness even with reinforced eyesight.

"What?" I hissed as quietly as I dared to.

It opened its mouth wide, farther than it would normally go, and I heard something other than squeaking.

_"…insane. You're a loony, I say." _The first voice coming from the little creature's mouth was much deeper than its vocal chords could produce.

_"Loony? You're the one that wants to leave the boss behind! What about the contract?" _The reply, while slightly higher in pitch, was nonetheless biologically impossible. Archie must've done some work on his familiars to make them more suited for exploration and spying, if it had managed to pierce the spell so easily. Now the furry little thing was reproducing the conversation for me in the midst of overhearing it.

_"Forget the contract, Harry! If we go back there we'll be six hundred feet under and no one's getting paid for anything. I'd rather be a living loony than a dead one."_

_"I oughta smack some sense into you. Who got us in here, huh? If it weren't for Al, we'd still be two deadbeats stuck selling our juice to the Tower. We can't leave him."_

_"I say we can. We were doing fine before. All we're doing here is running around like headless chickens. You remember where the exit is, right? Let's just get out of here and think of something else. Preferably something that doesn't involve working for a fucking Nazi."_

A Nazi. I'll admit it got me. I'm not exactly up to date with the War's progress, but as far as I can tell, this part of Egypt is square under the Allies' control. A living, breathing, Hitler-loving _Nationalsozialist_ was the last kind of person I'd expected to run into down here (to be fair, said Nazi might not actually be living or breathing at the moment). In hindsight, that was a foolish expectation. The results of this expedition will change the very course of the Second World War. It's practically a guarantee that at least a few Nazis will show up.

_"There ain't nothing else, Joe! We can't get out without Al, and even if we do, we're stuck in the middle of the desert with no way out. He has all the money and the map."_

_"He's also got all the dead, and we will too if we go after him. You remember what that thing did to him, don't you? I'll take my chances in the desert."_

_"I say you won't. Besides, I don't remember that well. I think we just got spooked by a little wind and ran off after he tripped."_

_"Nah, he got his leg smashed under this giant rock and you skedaddled because you thought there'd be more, remember? I said we should stay but you started screaming something about the mummy's curse."_

_"I don't remember any giant rock, and I didn't mention no mummies. Must've been Al. Point is, we need to go back. It ain't like we'll get lost on the way there."_

_"You don't think that's strange? That the place is straight down the hall? None of these branches have led us to a damned thing."_

_"It's not strange. If you died, you'd want your tomb to have some grandeur, right? Not be squirreled off in the corner of god knows where. It's perfectly normal."_

_"You're talking nonsense. I'm leaving." _Joe struck me as a whiner. They're common among those who aren't used to expeditions, and usually either toughen up or get killed off quickly. Harry, on the other hand, had his head on straighter, if only slightly. He seemed like the kind of guy who'd keep walking with a bullet in his gut if it meant getting through the day.

_"Get back here, you yellow-bellied bastard! Don't make me come after you!" _At the same time, patience was evidently not one of his strong suits.

There was no reply, but I heard the sounds of footsteps, this time from in front of me, not the mouse. I made to get away, but Archie had different ideas.

"Capture them," his voice, slightly higher pitched than usual, came from the mouse. "They've gone further than us, and we need that information."

"You'll get me killed, you bastard."

There was no reply.

Fuck you, Archie.

The steps quickened. The mouse had gone silent, and I heard the two men, one older and one younger, yelling. A second pair of footsteps joined the first, both heading towards me, but still very faint. Now that escape was no longer an option, I was left with no choice but to follow my superior's orders in hopes of matching those unrealistic expectations of his.

I gently placed a small hand mirror tied to a string on the ground next to my foot and nudged it into position, giving me vision of the hall's expanse without having to turn the corner to peek. Nothing yet, but they would arrive soon. In the mean time, I became a statue, quieting my circuits temporarily and going perfectly still. Even the reinforcement had to go. If they caught one whiff of my prana, I'd be up against two magi of unknown strength, with no surprise on my side and the nearest ally at least ten minutes away. "Archie," I said as quietly as I dared to. "Get the other one. A second is enough."

I thought I felt the small bundle of warmth on my shoulder give a nod. Its feet tightened on my shirt.

Darkness is a terrifying thing. Most folks have experienced it enough as a child that they learn to avoid it whenever they can. In the city, it's rare to see real darkness. The street lights keep it at bay, burning all day to make sure no one has to suffer through complete visual deprivation. Here, however, there was no such luxury, especially when I had to dim those lights myself.

With my reinforcement gone, darkness was all too close. Black in every direction, oppressive merely by existing. I'd have closed my eyes, but I couldn't. The mirror's location was etched into my mind, and I stared at the spot where it was, waiting to see something appear from nothing. There was no guarantee that they'd be using torches, but I had to bank on the stinginess of magi. If they had decided to reinforce their vision instead, I would have to rely completely on sound.

People have different reactions to darkness. Some withdraw, curling up into a ball and falling into their own mind for comfort and safety. Others lash out, running and acting and doing anything they can to banish the silence with their own noise. A rare few embrace the darkness, accepting it as part of them. Those that survive tend to be different afterwards, even if it's only slightly noticeable.

Me? I get tense. I freeze, tightening my whole body and going completely still. With every second that passes I turn to stone, winding up my body like a spring that will be released the moment it detects some kind of stimulus. To this day I don't know what will happen if I go too far and snap.

The footsteps approached, and I silenced my breathing. All that remained was the beating of my heart to remind me that I wasn't a statue. There was nothing I could do about that, though.

The yelling was clearly audible now. It had descended into incomprehensible slurs that I won't even bother recording. I saw a point of light appear in the mirror, and with a twitch of a finger the string yanked the mirror back before the magi could see the reflection themselves.

I could see the light now, illuminating the hall ever so slightly. The footsteps were almost here. One was about fifty feet behind the other, which would be enough.

A moment before the first one reached the corner I calmly stepped out from behind it, coming face to face with a gaunt man coated in sand, dust, and dried blood. Joe's eyes widened and he tried to stop his momentum, but it wasn't enough. He'd been running full pelt, and it would take him a few seconds to come to a stop.

He literally ran right into my fist, helped along only by a judicious application of torque and rotation learned that I must have learned from a boxer at one point. I felt his jaw move up, and his closed mouth wasn't enough to muffle the sound of teeth breaking on each other.

As the first one fell to his knees in before me, I saw the second one a fair distance away from the first. He was halfway through an aria when a shrieking mass of fur and teeth landed on his nose and bit down, hard. Some people possess the mental faculties and discipline necessary to keep chanting even in such trying circumstances. Evidently, he wasn't one of those people.

Harry tore the mouse away from his face just in time for me to introduce him to a left straight I picked up in Berlin. I felt a few of the bones in my fist crack. It was literally like punching a brick wall. Only brick walls don't light your hand on fire in retaliation. Perhaps he was one of those people after all.

I was already backing off when he kicked me. The force must've been blunted by my backwards momentum. It's the only explanation I have for how it didn't blow a hole through me.

As I flew through the air I twisted, my flaming hand leaving a dizzying trail of light behind. Joe was just getting up when I crashed into him, knocking the poor sod back down again. We tumbled in the sand for a few moments before I got my bearings and reinforced myself to keep from puking my guts out.

He must've landed ass-first on his torch, because my combusting arm was suddenly the only source of light, and he screamed like a little girl. Well, a little girl with no teeth and a substance abuse problem.

I got to my knees, dragging the catatonic bastard up with me. I didn't care that my broken hand was starting to smell like barbecue, or that the man's grubby coat was soaking up the flames like a cat licking up milk. All I knew was that I had Miss Daisy in my right hand, and that she was pressed against his temple.

"Hold-" I coughed, feeling some blood rushing up from my stomach. "Hold still, or Joe gets some ventilation in that empty skull of his."

Harry paused, about to throw a glob of fire at me. He lowered his hand, drops of liquid flames falling to the sand and sizzling away. "Fuck," he spat. I won't lie, I was pleased to see a tooth and a few drops of blood hit the floor, even if he wasn't making a big deal of it.

"Get rid of the fire," I said. "Unless you're in the mood for roasted buds."

"Ain't no friend of mine," he retorted. I felt the fire crawl up my arm. It was up to the elbow now, and apart from the searing pain I was getting a serious case of déjà vu.

I cocked the hammer. Harry flinched at the audible click.

"Not asking again," I told him, barely keeping the pain out of my voice. Just to make sure he got the message, I forced my left hand to unfold two burning fingers, holding them in front of the catatonic man's eyeballs. "I don't think this 'not friend' of yours would be amenable to walking back home without his eyes."

He folded. The fire on my arm and the hostage's jacket disappeared, leaving only charred flesh from the shoulder down. I'll be feeling that one in the morning.

"Good. See, isn't it much easier to negotiate when you aren't trying to roast the other party alive?"

He growled, "if you don't quit it with the fancy talk, I'll turn you and that bastard into barbecue, buddy or not. I'm not responsible for his incompetence." The flame on Harry's hand (incidentally the only thing left lighting up the hall) flared with his words, drops of it falling onto the sand and sizzling softly.

"Yeah," I nodded, shifting my gun slightly to make it more comfortable. "That would be Al, wouldn't it?" He stiffened, and I pressed my advantage. "He must not be very smart if he hired a guy who can't even reinforce himself in time to take a single punch. But I'm sure he hit the mark with you, pal. Am I right?"

Harry growled more threats to hide his fear, but I wasn't worried. The hardest part had been getting him to drop the fire. The first concession is always the trickiest, but once you back down once, you'll be doing it again and again.

"Which one of you is the Scribe?" I asked.

He said nothing.

"So it's this idiot, then." I rummaged through my hostage's burnt leather jacket with my burnt leather arm, quickly finding a tightly bound hardcover journal. Joe groaned a bit, but a whack with the butt of my pistol put a quick end to any chances of him waking up at an inopportune moment.

"Do you think you can take me?" the smarter man asked as I pocketed the Scribe's journal. "I know your type. Relying on your fists like that, you're probably first generation with no real circuits to speak of. I'm betting that gun of yours is enchanted because you've got no spells of your own to throw at me. In a straight fight, I'd roast you."

"I make a habit of avoiding straight fights. Now tell me what you saw back there and I'll let you two go."

"Just like that?" He was suspicious, of course. As someone who'd been on at least two expeditions before this one, he had all the right to be.

I nodded. "Just like that. I'll even give this guy an apology for ruining his winning smile."

"I don't believe you. You ain't bleeding me dry and then leaving me to die."

"I know." Dropping my hostage to the ground, but still keeping my gun pointed at the back of his head, I retrieved a rolled up scroll from within my satchel. The movement of my broken and burnt hand was clunky and painful, but I've been through worse. "Here." I tossed it to him. The man caught it with his free hand, expertly opening it and reading the words written there, making sure to glance at me every few seconds.

I could tell when he was done because his face turned red. "Are you insane?" he asked. "Did you come up with this idea from the beginning?"

"Not at all," I said. My useless magecraft happens to be fairly adaptable. "Read it again if you're still unsure. The contract is binding. Take it or leave it."

He read it again. This time he didn't even bother looking up. The mage's toothless companion groaned a few more times, but I refrained from any more violence to avoid giving him brain damage.

When the mage finished reading the scroll for the second time, I saw upon him the face of a man who has resigned himself. "How will you enforce it?" He asked. "If you're first generation…"

"I have a Crest." I activated it, showing the magi the green thorns travelling into my scalp and along my shoulders. "If I break the contract, I won't just lose my magecraft; my brain would be porridge."

I saw him hesitating, needing just a single push to sign the contract and submit to its will. "By the way," I added. "We have about five minutes until my employer gets here, and he won't be as merciful as me. Does the name 'Archibald' sound familiar to you?"

Harry nodded. He finally had something worth fearing without losing his pride. It would make all the difference. Better to be afraid of a Lord than some nobody. The fact that I was being merciful likely helped speed the decision along. Most magi wouldn't even have offered a way out, much less a geas-contract guaranteeing it. I know for a fact that Archie would have resorted to physical torture if he thought it would help him get ahead.

"You're a weird one," the magus grumbled as he relit his partner's torch with a finger and wedged it into a crack in the wall. "Anyone ever tell you that?"

"Much too often."

"Fucking crazy first gens. You get loonier every day, I swear to God." He skipped straight to the end of the contract, to the spot I'd left open for his signature, with mine right above it. To this day, most people I've foisted contracts upon wonder how I manage to prepare such intricate, specific conditions in such a short time. They're not going to find out any time soon.

By the way, this is the part where I realize there's a scorpion on my crotch. It's here that the analogy begins to rear its ugly head. Up until now, everything was going about as well as could be expected, most things considered. Yes, one of my arms resembled thrice fried jerky, and I was gambling my life on a razor's edge, but that wasn't exactly an unusual condition to be in. You could even call it the norm in many competitive expeditions. It's one of my mantras: If you aren't one unlucky decision away from death at all times, you aren't taking enough risks.

Sometimes I wonder what I'd been drinking when I came up with that shitty excuse for a sentence.

As Harry was about to touch the tip of the quill to the vellum, I saw a glimmer of light. It was a small thing, akin to an expensive watch momentarily reflecting the light of the sun, or the spark of a failed attempt to light a match. Were it as inconsequential as those examples, I'd have paid it no mind. Sadly, I'm not that lucky.

The tip of the quill fell to the floor, spreading a dot of ink among the sands. A moment later, the man's hands followed suit, dropping lifelessly with the contract still clutched in their grip. I saw him react to the events in slow motion. First, bewilderment, followed by alarm, and finally, incomprehensible rage. All of the man's muscles tensed at once. He roared, leaping upwards and pushing blindly towards me, all of his sanity gone.

Harry's head slid from his shoulders as his body collapsed, rolling to a stop near my foot.

"He should not have taken the Lord's name in vain." A familiar voice caressed my earlobe, telling me exactly how close its owner was. At the same time, I felt something sharp prick the small of my back. "Shall you repeat his mistake, grave robber?"

"…you?"

"Myself." The sharpness subsided, giving me permission to turn around. I came face to face with the Sister, looking slightly flushed but otherwise triumphant. She was flanked by two of her goons, each one a bit green even by the light of their torches. "Greetings, Scribe. It is a surprise to see you. I didn't think you would be able to enter this tomb so easily." There was no sign of any weapons on her person.

"You… you got in?"

"Of course. With some guidance from above, we were able to enter this heretical place. You can holster your weapon, by the way. It's of no use to you against us."

I glanced down. My hostage had stopped groaning, though only because there was a coin-sized hole in his forehead. I hadn't even noticed. Sorry, Joe.

When I returned my gaze to the Sister, I felt a blade at my neck, but saw nothing of the sort. None of her flunkies had moved, and her hands were both clasped together as if in prayer, but the sharp object almost cutting into my skin was definitely solid. The Sister smiled at my surprise. "I am favoured," she said. "You, however, are not."

"Oh?" I forced myself to grin. "What about those flunkies of yours? How many did you have to sacrifice just to open the way for yourself?"

"They are probing this temple as we speak," she said. "Looking for the rest of your trinity, as well as the resting place of this tomb's occupant."

"You're bluffing. I didn't run into anybody on the way here."

She chuckled, a soft sound that I'd almost call elegant. "Because I chose to let you through. Who do you think was responsible for stomping out that Archibald's familiar? It's merely a logical conclusion that he would send you to investigate. To use the words of a humble fisherman: This small bait was more than enough. Thanks to your actions, I not only have new information, but two sets of magi at my mercy." The Sister closed her eyes, whispering a prayer. "And we thank Him for this plentiful bounty."

I raised my gun, firing off a shot at point blank range towards her forehead, while simultaneously throwing myself back. The blade shifted, and had I been slightly slower it would have taken my head off. Instead, I felt a line open up on my flesh, bleeding a small waterfall that wouldn't be killing me any time soon.

When I came to my feet, it was to observe that none of my assailants had moved at all. Both of the Sister's companions were in the exact same place, and she hadn't even flinched as my bullet went through her forehead.

In hindsight, that was an incorrect conclusion. The bullet hadn't gone through her head, or even touched her. Instead, it floated just millimeters from the Sister's skin, already twisted into an unidentifiable lump. I saw it flatten before my eyes into something thinner than a sheet of paper, and slowly float to the floor. Her eyes followed its path before coming to rest on my own.

"Thank you," she said.


	5. Third Entry (Part Two)

I don't consider myself a believer. Few, if any magi are, when the largest and most powerful religious organization in the civilized world wants most of them dead. Although the Church seldom lets us forget its hatred, you'll occasionally find a strange magus that truly believes. However, if miracles exist, then God hasn't been granting any of them to me.

When I considered escape, as was the obvious course of action, I found my way blocked. In addition to the invincible Sister before me, I heard steps from behind, and saw the glint of three guns pointed at my back.

"That's just cruel," I grumbled, surrounded by enemies on all sides. "Aren't you supposed to abhor magecraft?" I shifted slightly to move my left arm into a more comfortable position, and the barrels of two rifles followed me. The two men stood less than 50 feet away at the T-shaped intersection; more than enough to hit me if they had any skill. The Sister stood between them, still proudly displaying that irritating smile of hers. I knew there would be at least three more men down the other side of the hall, to make sure I didn't run. I watched numbly as two of the Sister's henchmen dragged off Harry and Joe, likely to loot and then burn their bodies. In all likelihood, I would be next.

"This ability is something that could never be granted to one such as you," the Sister said, spreading her arms wide as if expecting a hug from no one in particular. "You insult Him by comparing it to your machinations and tricks."

"Oh, my mistake then. Of course this invisible pal of yours isn't using any sorts of magecraft," I replied loudly, while continuing to amend my position. My gun arm was free again. I could fire and shoot both of the flunkies in less than a second, but there was nothing I could do against an invisible opponent in my situation. "An artifact, then? One of those holy rocks or pieces of junk you treasure so much? Some poor dead bastard's pillaged Mystic Code?"

From the look she gave me, the Sister was definitely not fooled. "Following His example," she continued. "I have granted you mercy twice. A third time will not follow if you decide to attack my companions. Your life was spared on a whim, so I can take it away just as easily."

Real nice mercy, lady. If I'd been an inch off when dodging, I'd be watering the sand with my blood right now. The true mercy would be if you kept on extending your monologue like that.

In this kind of situation, though, there wasn't much I could do on my own, at least not without stalling. It's times like this that force people to make difficult decisions. "Alright, fine. I surrender." I made a show of putting Miss Daisy on the ground and moving to my knees. "I can't keep acting like this. Risking my life only has meaning if there's a chance of victory in the first place. You won't kill me, right?"

"Huh?" I saw it clear as water. For a second, the Sister was surprised. Of course she hid it nicely, and unless I'd been watching for it (which I was), it wouldn't have been noticeable. "O-of course. I honour my word. Well then, since you are now my prisoner, I command you to give me your journal. Don't stand, or my men will shoot."

"Hm," I shook my head, keeping one knee on the ground. "So you know of a Scribe's role? If that's so, then you should also know that I've signed a contract preventing me from doing so. You'll have to take it by force."

"Break the contract, then."

"Not a chance," I said. None of my enemies were especially powerful magi. The two mooks were using guns, meaning Abdul must've been the only decent one of the lot, and Churchies typically don't use magecraft at all. As I spoke, I ran prana through my wounded hand, slowly forcing the broken bones to knit together while leaving my burnt skin untouched. "It would kill me. If I'm going to die, I might as well do it while inconveniencing you." No reaction. So they couldn't sense my forming a spell. "Although," I added with a raunchy grin. "I wouldn't mind being searched by a doll like you, miss."

"Why you disgusting little-!" The Sister was still for a moment before she spoke again, her words tightly controlled. I saw her brows furrow as she came to the only logical conclusion that could result from my words. A single lock of blonde hair slipped down from her habit before she brushed it aside and forced aside the anger I'd been trying to stir up. "Fine," she said, abandoning her hatred for me as easily as one would toss aside a spent cigar. "Sallah, search him, forcibly. I'll make sure no harm comes to you."

One of them men, fatter and more bearded than the other, lowered his rifle. He took several tentative steps forward, brandishing a torch as if it was a shield against the danger of nearing an unarmed prisoner. He kicked away Miss Daisy, grinning as he spotted my glare in the torchlight. At the same time, the Sister too ventured closer, though she stopped around thirty feet from me. I felt pressure around my wrists, holding them in a steel grip. At the same time, I could see nothing of my captor, even as indentations formed on my skin. My arms were wrenched apart and held together behind my back. I felt one of my shoulders come close to popping out of its socket, and held back a hiss of pain.

She hadn't given any orders to the invisible one. Either they could communicate non-verbally, or it was less of a person and more of an ability of hers. Or perhaps she possessed some sort of hidden artifact that afforded her control over the wind… no, that wasn't even touching the tip of this pyramid of possibilities. I needed more information.

"Nice job, invisible man," I said. "I suppose this is your thirteenth member? Really, the whole 'Baker's Dozen' bit was rather foolish. You didn't have to drop a hint just so we could figure it out." She didn't reply, but I saw her lips tense before Sallah blocked my view. "Can't tell you where it is," I told him. "I'd be cautious if I were in your place. Do try not to set off any of the traps. I actually like this coat."

He glanced back to the Sister, obviously worried. "He's bluffing," she said. "It must be on one of the inner pockets. Believe in our Lord. He won't allow harm to come to you." The man didn't seem to be nearly as faithful as his lady, but he wasn't about to disobey her orders.

Didn't matter. He was afraid. Be it a little, be it a lot, he had the fear in him. So did the Sister, but her abnormal amount of faith was enough to keep it from affecting her. But good old Sallah's hands shook as he tentatively probed my outer pockets first, hoping against hope that he wouldn't get his finger chopped off by god knows what. To him, I was a cornered rat who hadn't tried to bite, and it set off all of the alarm bells and then some. He probably knew just enough about magecraft to imagine all the different kinds of tortures I could inflict upon him from this position, and too little to realize just how limited my arsenal was.

"Tell me, Scribe," the Sister spoke, not nearly as afraid as her follower. "Why are you here?" It was the first question she'd asked that I couldn't laugh off or use to insult her.

"For my paycheck," I grunted. "You should know enough that I don't need to tell you that."

"Is that all?" I think I detected a hint of disappointment in her voice. "Have you given no thought to the significance of what will take place here?"

"Should I have?" Archie's the one who hired me. Let him work things out. My only purpose here is to record his story and mine, so that they might be passed on when the time comes.

The Sister was silent for a time, as Sallah rummaged through my pockets. I could do nothing but wait for my chance, even if it never came. Eventually, though, she could not keep herself from speaking. Another flaw of Churchies. Either they never speak, or never stop talking. "If you were to continue," she said. "If you were to find whatever it is you are looking for, what would you do with it? Are you prepared for what sleeps in these halls, Scribe? That employer of yours is. He knows what awaits him, but your knowledge is limited. We have our seven, but an old heretic once named ignorance as the greatest sin among your kind. Certainly, you can hide behind that philosophy of yours, but I do not wish to speak to a mere recording tool."

"…oi, watch it. You may be a lady, but if you keep accusing me like that, I might just get upset."

"Please do. Shying away from the Truth would be an ultimate act of hypocrisy. Seeing a magus abandon his beliefs like that could bring me nothing but joy."

She got me. One victory to her in our pointless game.

Sallah withdrew a piece of paper from a pocket and unfolded it. The pilot's contact information. "Go ahead," I said, glad to be able to talk at someone who wouldn't bite back. "Keep it. You might need a quick flight out of Egypt very soon. There's plagues here you can only get treatment for in the Clock Tower's dungeons."

He angrily kicked me in the stomach before roughly replacing the paper, muttering curses in Arabic under his breath. I didn't dare risk a reinforcement, so that morning's weak breakfast met and mingled with the sand at his feet in no time at all. At the same time, I felt a tiny prick in my burnt, all too sensitive hand. A thin, barely noticeable string crawled up my index finger and poked my palm. My hiss of pain was masked by my attempts to keep my stomach down.

I looked at the Sister as the string began tracing familiar shapes on my charred skin. "Not being very true to your beliefs, are you, lady?" I coughed, retching up some blood. "You ain't an Executor, that's certain. But definitely not from the Burial Agency either. Those people aren't nearly as faithful as you, but they'd never work with magi so easily."

She ignored my part-insult part-inquiry. "You are a scoundrel and a thug, Scribe. Have you no sense of shame?"

"Ah, sorry. Lost that when I decided to learn magecraft. We tend to be a wonderfully pragmatic bunch when our lives are on the line." R, the string traced. E, A, and a D followed by a Y. "Don't misunderstand, though," I told the Sister. "We don't lose everything. See, my Record tells me my parents were praying folk."

She stilled. Sallah was leafing through my inner pockets, seconds away from discovering the journal. The invisible manacles on my hands tightened painfully. I'd gotten to her. The string on my palm traced the number 3, followed by a 2, counting down.

"There was this one verse from the good book I enjoyed quite a bit as a child. I can almost remember it now. Genesis 1:3, I think it was."

I saw her eyes widen. Too late, lady. Too late.

The string traced a 1, and then jammed itself into my skin.

"And God said: Let there be light!"

A curious fact about a spell's aria is that it can be practically anything as long as it involves language of some kind. Most magi go for Latin, German, or an obscure dialect when inventing their chants. A few of the more refined ones use poetry, either homebrewed or shamelessly taken from a famous dead guy. I once worked for a magus who intentionally deafened himself, and then substituted sign language for the spoken variety, with favorable results. In general, though, the more complicated the spell, the more complicated the aria. Following this supposition, a small gesture can be set off by a simple sentence or phrase, allowing for remarkable amounts of variety that's rarely utilized to its fullest extent.

On a side note, I write these words completely aware of my own hypocrisy in the matter. I can't know what I was thinking when I dreamed up my chants, but I've found that, invariably, they tend towards the blasphemous, for both magi and believer. Really, Bible quotes of all things? For what purpose?

After my proclamation, a series of things happened in quick succession. First, the less than effective enchanted bullet that I'd fired earlier activated its effect in response to my aria. The spell Miss Daisy had engraved on its innards activated, burning the chunk of metal's mass to become a flare that lit up the room and blinded that man standing right in front of it, conveniently taking his gun out of commission. For a split second the Sister became the centre of a solar eclipse, the halo of brightness around her illuminating the carvings upon the walls and lengthening her shadow immensely. I heard a cry of pain from Sallah, who had turned towards her to inquire about something.

Second, the tiny sphere of light that I'd been forming in my clenched hands the entire time rose above my head and did the same thing the bullet did, burning itself out in a single moment to blind my aggressor from the other side, all while leaving me the only one in the hall with working vision for the some precious seconds.

Not the most well planned escape, I'll admit, but it had to be then, before the Sister's desire to keep me alive vanished. Despite all of my supposed bravado, I do not want to know the details of what happens to magi captured by the Church. I recorded a horror story told to me by my teacher, once, of those poor souls. It still chills me to this day.

The manacles around my wrists remained as the final barrier to my flight, and they weren't about to disappear just from the Sister's blindness. On the contrary, they tightened, and with several audible cracks I heard rather than felt the reinforced bones in my wrists shatter into several tiny pieces, leaving me unable to lift a finger and barely restraining myself from screaming like a young boy finding out firsthand what it feels like to fight someone who kicks low.

It was then that our Guide decided to enact her part of the rescue. Although I couldn't see them, I am told that several metal strings, in addition to the one that had served as my warning, wrapped around the spectre's invisible arms and pulled with the force of what she later told me was several tons.

I do know that nothing happened. She might as well have been struggling against an unmovable object. In response, the fingers squeezed again, sending a fresh wave of pain into my brain. Through the haze I saw Sallah flailing wildly with his gun, pointing every which way. Yells started up. The Sister screamed for her men to do something, anything to punish my disobedience. Sallah's replies and those of his brothers promised me death in a language I could barely understand.

"Get the woman away!" I roared. "She's controlling it!"

Sallah whirled in my direction, his gun coming up aimed directly at my forehead. He may have been blind, but he wasn't deaf. As his finger tightened on the trigger I did the only thing I could and lunged forward, stretching and cracking more bones in my arms, but successfully getting my teeth clamped around the long barrel of the rifle. I jerked to the left as he fired, and the bullet near deafened me as it exited, but I felt only the heat of parting air, ringing in my ear, and numbness in my mouth instead of oblivion, meaning it had missed.

At the same time, I felt the pressure on my hands disappear as suddenly as it had shown up. I was free.

Of course, it wasn't because of some heroic breakthrough on my part. Rather, it was a simple confirmation of my earlier theory. The Sister's cries had been muffled, and she struggled futilely against a string that had wrapped itself around her throat and tightened. Somehow, she hadn't been decapitated instantly. Despite the noise, I could hear her choking and sputtering as she tried to get air into her lungs. Unable to kill her, the makeshift noose dragged her backwards, away from me.

Sallah, blinking away the spots in his vision, cursed and yanked his gun from my mouth. He swung it like a club, and I barely ducked out of the way as it whooshed over my head. The one closer to the Sister was rushing to her aid, leaving only this man as the last obstacle I had to overcome.

As he raised his weapon to smash it down on his near defenceless opponent, the gun jumped from Sallah's hand, pulled along by more of Moriah's string. He looked at his empty palms for a second, one I took and used to give him a well deserved knee to the jewels. He crumpled like a wet newspaper.

"This way." Among the yells and sounds of people choking, I heard a familiar accented voice behind me. Rising to my feet, I turned and ran towards it as well as I could, wincing as the movement jostled the mess my wrists had become. I only paused to flip Miss Daisy up into the air with my foot before awkwardly grabbing onto her barrel with my mouth.

The main reason I'd surrendered instead of just legging it was to possibly gather information from my captors, but that hadn't gone through. The Sister, while definitely not the sharpest tool in the shed, was smart enough to keep her mouth shut about anything that could be important, settling for ridiculously horrible interrogations, dropping obvious hints, and philosophising. The second was the presence of Church men in the halls, specifically the two standing directly in my way. Even if I ran from the Sister, I'd likely be shot full of bullets almost instantly.

The third was because I knew backup would be arriving shortly.

I won't deny that I felt a sick feeling of giddiness as I saw two fallen men in my way, splayed about limp on the ground. A third was slumped against a wall with his eyes empty and a thin stream of blood running from his mouth, with only the slight rise and fall of his chest to signify his continued survival.

At that point I was beginning to feel the strain of overusing my circuits, but I still spared enough prana to reinforce my eyes again, in lieu of lighting a highly visible torch. The yells from behind me grew louder, and with a sharp bang, I felt something shoot past my shoulder, followed by more bullets that went from bouncing off the walls to nicking my clothes.

I lowered my head and surged forward, knowing that I'd be feeling the strain hours later. The bullets continued, and I passed two more bodies before I came to another four way intersection. As soon as I stepped into the open area, a hand reached out and unceremoniously yanked me into the left turn.

"We go straight," Moriah said, panting lightly. "Two more lefts, one right, and they'll lose the trail."

No more words needed to be said. We ran, pursued by ever fainter yells and the Sister's unspoken promise of vengeance. True to the Guide's word, the sounds completely faded after the last turn, where we stopped to catch our breath. Moriah lit a torch and wedged it into a space in the wall, letting me see her face without having to squint.

I spat out the gun in my mouth as she sank against the wall, but couldn't do the same for the sand that had gotten stuck on it. "You've got blood on you," I observed, between bouts of hacking and coughing.

She idly reached up and tried to wipe a blot of red from her cheek, only succeeding in smudging it. "It will wash off."

I took a seat across from her, taking care not to move my hands in any capacity. They were well broken, certainly requiring an investment to get into working condition. Running the numbers in my head only made things worse. I'd be able to heal, but it would leave me functionally drained for a day. I'd barely have enough juice to maintain my Crest, let alone record and retrieve anything.

"Archibald is angry," Moriah said eventually. She stared at one spot on the ground, not moving to meet my searching gaze. "When we return, there's a 65% chance of he and you getting into a serious argument, approximately."

"How serious?"

"2:1 odds that it goes to violence. Within that subset of probabilities, there's a 63% chance of him inflicting a lethal injury, and a 7% chance of you doing the same to him. The odds of you both surviving are less than desirable."

I don't know where she gets those predictions from. Those from ATLAS usually never say. They'll claim to fight for the world's survival at heart, but it doesn't stop them from hoarding more secret weapons than most of the Clock Tower and being generally tight-lipped. It's why tensions have been growing all this time. An associate of mine once claimed that only the fact that they technically swear fealty to the Association keeps the Tower from mounting a forcible take-over. That, and the fact that most magi are too prideful to admit that they might lose should it come to war. He didn't have to tell me the second part.

I switched topics. "Why did we run, earlier?" I asked her. "From what I can tell, you had the situation well under control. We could have gone on the offensive easily enough."

"Appearances can be deceiving. Had we stayed, there was a 78% chance that… well, we likely would have both ended up dead." I thought I saw Moriah shuddering for a moment in the dim light, but it must've just been the torchlight flickering over her face. She's too young to be saying this kind of stuff without flinching, but the divide between age and skill is rapidly shrinking these days. Soon we'll have youngsters outperforming people with decades over them.

"The Sister?"

"I couldn't ascertain her abilities fully. It could be anything from wind manipulation to spiritual projection. We are fortunate that it possesses a limited effective range. Of our group, Sir Archibald is the only one with favourable odds in a direct confrontation."

She must've seen the look on my face, because she quickly tried to amend her statement. "What I mean to say is that you are simply unsuited to fighting her, not that you aren't skilled."

"It's fine. I'm not the kind of guy who gets angry over something like that."

"You seem irritated."

"That's because my wrists are a mess of bloody splinters."

"Do you need medical help?"

"No. Just get on with it."

She explained herself. The rescue had been planned as soon as I'd been captured. Archie's hardly little mouse saw the whole thing, and they'd worked out what to do quickly enough after some encouraging statistics from our resident seer. Moriah wasn't too thrilled about having been sent to save me on her own, but that's just what Clock Tower magi are like. Why risk your own life when you can have someone else risk theirs?

Archibald would join us in a half hour. We waited in silence for the first fifteen minutes, her reading the journal I'd pilfered from the recently deceased Joe and me doing my best not to slice an artery by breathing too hard. Then the torch burnt down. I moved to replace it, remembering too late that my arms were little more than dead weight.

"Allow me." Moriah deftly lit another torch and wedged it into a wall socket, once more illuminating the foreboding carvings and bringing a semblance of order to my pain-addled mind.

"This place makes no sense," I grumbled. "What use are these halls? There are no traps, no treasure, just a pointless maze that shouldn't exist. There's no guarantee that there exists here something that could kill a million people in an instant, yet we are risking our lives to search for it. "

"There were traps," Moriah said. "And people." She traced over a mural next to my head with a delicate finger. "Fourteen hundred years ago, a would-be robber made it to this wall. Once he stepped past the threshold, his body was compacted into an area smaller than an eyeball. Two hundred years later, one of the magi assigned to investigate this discovery triggered a secondary trap that deposited the mass of the first magus into the second's cranium. The slave who cleaned up their remains made it to the next intersection before her soul was forcibly extracted and her body turned to sand."

She looked at me, her gaze hardened, silently judging me. "The only reason we still live is because of the countless predecessors who died in our place. This tomb has stood for millennia, and only now, after its weapons have been exhausted, do we have a chance to penetrate to its deepest parts. There was a price paid for our progress. We have the fortune of not being the ones to bear its burden, but we are obliged to finish what they began."

"To finish what? Dying in vain? Leaving behind kids, family, all for greed? There are better uses for a life."

"There are also worse. You should know that."

I usually consider myself a relatively balanced person. Though I cannot boast of any great accomplishments or discoveries (barring personal ones that have no place in this journal), my name is known to many in my field, and I feel comfortable in saying that I am satisfied with my current life style. In rare occasions, however, I find myself overcome with great anger, which I cannot explain away. It is a seemingly random urge to find the most beautiful, masterful thing I can see and destroy it. To tear down a work of art, desecrate a palace, and smear mud over a well written paper. In response to the girl's words, that anger surfaced once more, and with it, a desire to show an upstart child _exactly_ what I knew.

Cooler minds prevailed, of course. Had I displayed my tantrum I would be nothing more than a child unable to control his own urges. Even our juvenile Guide has grasped that much, perhaps slightly too well for my tastes. It worries me, though. My Record has no trace of that emotion's origin, and I cannot place its start in my timeline. Yet it persists where others would fade.

It was to my fortune, however twisted, that Archibald decided to show up at that moment, sparing me the necessity of responding to Moriah's implication. Judging from how close together he had brought those bushy eyebrows, he wasn't amused.

"One hour," he sneered, tapping his cane on the walls. "I give you one hour without me and you wind up near dead. I doubt you'll be able to fulfill your contract if your brain has ceased operating, Scribe. Or has it already done so? Certainly it would explain your gross incompetence thus far."

7%, she said. Judging from the look on Moriah's face, that number had just gone up. Perhaps her prediction method had failed to take into account her own contribution, because at that moment I was ready to kill the man who dared to lecture me like a child. Just one word away from snapping, I stood, my arms limp at my sides.

"Your orders were faulty," I said, with the most even tone I could manage. "Expecting me to handle two unknown magi was foolish. I'm a Scribe, not a fighter."

Not even enough. In the dim light I saw the corners of his lips turn up. "If you are saying the sword is only as powerful as its master, then I will have to refuse your offer. Outside of this contract, you've yet to give me a single reason to keep you even as the lowliest of slaves."

"I did what you asked."

"You could have refused."

I couldn't have, and he knew it. "I succeeded, even with the Church showing up despite your insistence that they wouldn't. If you wanted me dead, you could have killed me days ago and saved me the trouble of having to come all the way here. So… you were lying about being referred to me by an associate." Which means that he does have ulterior motives, as the Sister said. Terrific. This situation couldn't possibly get worse, I thought to myself, not knowing of how this world enjoys its irony.

"Hmph. You aren't as stupid as you look." With those words, Archie apparently decided that the conversation was over, because he turned away from me and towards Moriah. "Girl, I will assume that you managed to tear your eyes away from this frippery on the walls long enough to plot our route to the center. We must be off as soon as possible."

I could have punched him. My arms were useless, but I could have socked that smug bastard in the face, even if recalling a whole arm burnt me out completely. I could have blown his head off, burnt it to a crisp with one empyrean fist, as easily as remembering an old address. The only reason I didn't was the fact that I knew it would be exactly what he wanted, and that it would kill me.

We set off with little fanfare. I'd like to say that I got a good blow in, but Archie isn't the kind of person who cares for the opinions of those below him. Moriah gave him a few simple directions and he set off, not slowing down for the rest of us. He sent several returning familiars forward and led the way with torch and cane in hand. Moriah and I brought up the rear. Any chance of good conversation was buried when she returned to looking at that blasted journal, leaving me to try and interest myself with my surroundings.

The walls stood out even more-so than they had when I ventured forth on my own. The depictions had gained realism unseen in similarly ancient civilizations, depicting beating hearts, chanting hordes, and that ever present disk in the sky seeing everything with its unblinking gaze. It was almost as if the carving was watching us as well, more interested in the real world than a false image of slaughter. Moriah didn't bother to explain any of it. She didn't even give any predictions, likely because her ability is the kind that can only take into account known variables when coming up with a number. Judging from her tight lipped determination, though, said number wasn't likely to be in our favour.

We didn't run into anyone. For that small mercy I am thankful. Perhaps it was our initiative that had given us that. With almost a week until our deadline, the other magi itching to investigate would still be behind us. As we walked, the only concession Archibald made was not forcing me to hold a torch, though he refused to slow down at all. My hands recovered slowly but surely. After half an hour of silent, painful walking, I could move my fingers properly, albeit with every twitch accompanied by a symphony of searing pain. Continuing at that rate, I'd be done in an hour, and so would my circuit, leaving barely enough to keep my Crest going.

Whether for better or for worse, we arrived at our destination before that.

There's a certain pattern that you go through when shamelessly pillaging ancient, crumbling ruins, even if said ruins haven't quite reached the crumbling phase. The initial difficulty lies in finding the entrance and dealing with any other tomb robbers that might be competing with you for the prize. After that, you must make your way through the usually sprawling maze of traps and tunnels. This particular mission was disappointing on that note, but I'm not complaining. Continuing, the third and likely most important part is finding said treasure, artifact, or sealed abomination of terrible destruction once inside the place.

Of course, the treasures are never hidden very well. On the contrary, people tend to put them out in the open as if they're being displayed for the whole world to see, many times building the entire structure around a large, open room housing said treasure. It's illogical, but the trend is disturbingly constant. The best hypothesis most explorers can agree on is that people from the Age of Gods were simply very, very vain, and lacking in more than a little common sense, which is strange, considering how even ordinary folk caught on to the idea well enough after a few dozen dead and buried pharaohs found their tombs being ransacked.

For one moment we were trudging along an endless, sandy corridor, and in the next I took a step into a room of pure white marble, lit by pulsing green flames set into a wall that stretched up into endless darkness. The room itself was circular as a jarring contrast to the rest of the tomb. Its radius must've been at least equal to the width of the hallways we'd trudged through, and the single continuous wall (with no visible entrances or exits, including the one I'd stepped through) was covered with murals that made those we'd passed by earlier look like the scribbles of a child, depicting everything from that disk again, to complex mathematical formulae I'd need hours to decipher. The floor was no longer sand and rough stone, but evenly spaced tiles put together so well that they could've been one solid slab of smooth rock. A glance down confirmed my guess: It too, was a canvas for a deranged artist.

Were we in any other position, I would likely be writing about the disorientation I felt as I entered the room, or perhaps commenting on the unusual architecture while guessing its purpose. Sadly, that isn't the case. This brief description is what I took in during my initial glance at the room. The rest of my attention was from then on focused only on the center of the chamber, and nowhere else.

A single beam of light shone down onto a structure in the middle of the room, one that I can only describe as a series of marble pillars loosely arranged in a circle with their tops linked together, but spaced out enough for a man of my size to slip through the gaps between easily enough. I'd have called it a gazebo if there had been a roof of any kind. Instead, it was more of a fence for the piercing beam of light that speared through the structure from the unseen ceiling, perfectly bathing the interior in gold without spilling out into the surroundings.

Also, coincidentally, making it extremely obvious what the interior contained. In this case an elaborate sarcophagus, and the limp body of a man draped over it.

Archie wasn't happy about that. Not the desecration of the temple, but the fact that we hadn't gotten there first. "Investigate, Scribe," he said, but Moriah was already running towards the chain of pillars. I stuck a foot in front of her legs, letting gravity do the rest of the work. She flailed awkwardly in the air with a picturesque expression of surprise on her face before hitting marble.

"Not a good idea," I said as she picked herself up off the ground, rubbing her reddened nose and glaring at me accusatorily. "There could be all kinds of traps just waiting for us to trigger them, or he could be alive and waiting for us to come closer before he attacks. Let the familiars go first."

Surprisingly, Archie was bereft of protests. He sent a quarter of the smaller creatures under his command to approach the circle from all sides. They reached the pillars without incident, though none ventured through, in case they would be breaking the perimeter of a trap. We followed, getting a closer look at the body in the circle.

It wasn't particularly surprising, but the revelation still had a bit of an impact. The familiar black and white of the _Balkenkreuz_ was poorly hidden on the man's shoulder, and his military uniform told the story of a low ranking officer who had somehow found himself far, far away from his battle lines. The soldier's face was indistinguishable as he lay on his stomach, and we couldn't simply cross the line without possibly triggering a trap. Moriah, who had seemed abnormally stressed the moment she had glimpsed the body, insisted that it was a magic circle, and neither I nor Archie had any reason to disagree with her. She asked for time to decipher some of the wall murals, and we replied in the affirmative.

The affirmative only lasted until a loud grinding noise emanated from the circle of pillars. Three pairs of human eyes, and countless more inhuman ones immediately looked towards the body, and found that the body was a body no longer; our mystery man had woken.

The grinding was the lid of the sarcophagus being pushed from its resting place by the man's shifting weight. Unaware of the noise, our soldier raised his head, revealing limp blond hair, darkened circles under his eyes, and an unhealthy pallor to his skin.

I was closest, so he noticed me first through a gap in the stone. His dead eyes fixed on mine and I could no more move them that I could my hands. His face fell at some terrifying conclusion he'd evidently arrived at, and with desperation he spoke, pushing himself off the sarcophagus and standing on two legs.

_"Leave,"_ he groaned in slurred German, staggering as close to me as he could without exiting the perimeter. _"Brother, you cannot stay here. It was a trap, all of it. This entire place is just a feeding ground for the sleeping one,"_ his eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed, falling on his side this time. _"And we were the harvest."_

Perhaps I could have prevented what happened next. I don't think so. I feel that, whatever the case, it would have happened anyway. We were merely unfortunate enough to arrive at the worst, or best possible time to witness it.

The grinding noise didn't stop. I saw for the first time the intricate paint on the sarcophagus, depicting a man with the head of a jackal, and the crimson blood that had bled from the man's pierced stomach and into the coffin through holes in the top. I saw the pillars crack, an angry red glare overpowering the warm glow of sunlight. The noise intensified, and the cracks spread from the pillars to the floor, emanating both outwards and inwards, scarring the pure marble with ugly fissures that widened quickly. As if time had slowed, I perceived the cracks reach the coffin and spread to it as well, moving along carvings and jagged lines until they were woven around the thing like an intricate net.

I saw Archie raise his cane, an aria on his lips.

I saw Moriah thrusting her palm towards the circle, strings jumping to life from her fingertips.

I saw a bloody hand wrapped in yellow cloth burst from the center of the coffin, reaching towards the light even as its coverings hissed and blackened.

I felt the ground shift under my feet and then lurch, sending me careening towards the center of the room, which was now noticeably lower than the rest.

I heard a scream as the ground crumbled beneath my legs, sending me spiraling into darkness.


	6. Fourth Entry (Part One)

Due to my memory not being what it once was, this next entry will be slightly less accurate than the preceding and later ones. During the events of this day – so far as I can call it that, as we may have been underground for longer – my circuit had partial functionality at best, since any heavy use of magecraft would risk permanent damage. However, I can guarantee that everything I record here is true, as if I had Recorded it properly. While the words may not be exact, the spirit is there, and nothing of importance has been left out.

After a period of darkness plagued by visions of walking corpses and laughing old men, I awoke to speech only a short distance away. The air was musty and hot, and I was on my back. Weak light played across my eyelids and the familiar tang of dried blood and human odor welcomed my return to consciousness. My body ached in many places, and everything from my head to the extremes of my toes was abnormally heavy, a sure sign of improper rest and acute weariness. For that reason I did not immediately announce my presence or my change of state by reflexively opening my eyes, leading the speakers to continue believing I was asleep. I'm no actor, but faking unconsciousness is something I've been forced to become proficient at. I would like to note here that I am not a voyeur by nature, but when one is heavily injured, tired, and slightly delirious, complex thoughts like morality give way easily to the basic instincts of observation and information gathering.

"…shouldn't be here." Moriah was angry. Her voice, while as even as I have come to expect, had a raw undertone that suggested she'd spent some time yelling. "This is far from your territory, Alfons. You were supposed to stay out of this country."

"I could say the same for you." I recognized the German's highly accented English from just before whatever it is that happened. The pain on the edge of his voice made it clear he was still wounded, and I placed him at close to Moriah's age, perhaps a little older. He spoke with a hint of gaiety, as if he was used to telling jokes. "When is the last time you ventured out of your fortification of books? Hypocrisy goes both ways."

"I've been advancing my research. You were killing for a madman. I'd hardly call that equal."

"Yes, at least I've learned a few things over the years. After all this time, you seem to me to have not changed at all. What of _that_ issue? Is it solved?"

She hesitated for a moment. "I have better things to do than chase irrelevant distractions. Besides, if all goes well, I'll have more important things to worry about than an image problem."

"You should have fixed that 'image problem' years ago. Did you forget my advice?"

"I have not! You knew nothing then, as did I. Taking your advice on a matter of such importance was unwise."

"…it didn't work?" He slowed down. The harsh atmosphere faded, leaving behind only regrets.

I imagined Moriah shaking her head. "Of course not! To this day they still curse the union. Both names remain buried under the sands of guilt, even if none mention them in public. Why you thought it would help, I still don't know." Her words petered out like the last drops of water from a closed faucet.

"I… I'm sorry."

No response. There was a momentary lull in the speaking. My breathing had been tortured and uneven from the start, so they did not notice any difference.

"I thought it would convince them to drop the issue," the German soldier, Alfons she had called him, said. "Mor, I'm sorry."

"It's okay." It obviously wasn't okay. "We were both fools then, but the attempt wasn't completely useless. Atlas is an academy of intellectuals. Several of my theses have received attention despite the… handicap. If this mission is successful, the problem will be solved."

"Will it truly? If your best efforts could do nothing, then perhaps it's a better idea to leave it alone. After this war, the name of the The Party will forever be stained by that man's actions, whether he wins or loses. Sometimes wounds cannot be healed. Sometimes they are not yours to mend."

"That wisdom holds no meaning coming from you."

The man's voice was rising now, as his own temper flared up despite his best attempts. "I may be a fool, but I am not blind. The only one you're lying to here is yourself. When did you switch your Ethelite for that glorified fishing line?"

"It was… unneeded for this mission."

"Was it? Or are you too ashamed to-"

"Alfons! No more." She was firm now, and even disguised behind an accent, I still recognized that familiar this-talk-is-over tone. To my addled mind, it was as if Mother was once again chiding me for breaking Jenny's doll.

The illusion went as quickly as it had arrived. "…fine. This isn't the place for such things, anyway," Al muttered, seemingly resigned to surrender the argument to his much more stubborn opponent.

"Neither is it the place for you. I'll ask again: Why are you here?"

Paper rustled and exchanged hands. "An acquaintance of mine received a certain letter. The rest should be familiar to you."

There was more silence for a while. They both knew the implications of his words. If he'd read the letter, then… "He can't win," Moriah eventually said. "Neither will you."

Alfons laughed, painfully. "You say this, after confessing your own selfish motivations? Shameless indeed, these alchemists are! What's wrong with fighting for one's country?"

"You fight for a piece of land. I fight to save the world."

"To save your pride."

"It's been calculated, Alfons. Your Fuhrer's victory cuts the maximum remaining time by more than a century. Why do you think Atlas refrained from giving him support? This mission's greater than you or me."

"Your words don't invalidate mine."

She was grumbling at that point, but it was obvious that it would have to be dropped. "You truly are incorrigible. Can we at least promise to work together? Your Scribe and Guide are dead. Our Magus is missing. A temporary alliance would fill the holes."

"You could just kill me when you find your Magus, if he lives. Actually, you _should_ have let me die. We are still enemies, and I doubt your Scribe would approve, knowing that our goals will continue to contradict each other."

"_Alfons_." She sounded sincere. She probably _was_ sincere. Even he could tell.

He let out a sigh confessing both exasperation and relief. "Yes, yes. Where do I sign?" A few scribbles of feather pen on fresh parchment and the slight tang of ozone as a magical contract was finalized spelt out the proceedings.

After that, there was no more conversation, only the shifting of bodies, and of clothes rubbing on skin. Rocks ground on sand as they were lugged away from somewhere, and an ominous creaking above me signified that the ceiling was none too stable. One of the bodies moved closer to me, coming to a stop at my side, while the other proceeded to move rocks for a few minutes before stopping and resting a short distance away.

Despite the soreness and my own weariness, I fell asleep again as easily as I had slipped out of it.

Sometime later I was woken by someone shaking my shoulder with little care spared for gentleness. I blinked my eyes open to see a dusty face hovering over mine in the firelight.

"We have to move." Moriah had no time for niceties. Neither did I. Her hands pulled me up. I instinctively braced my own limbs on the rough, rocky ground, and though I felt the pain in my bones, they worked well enough to be deemed 'healed'. As for the rest of my body, it was covered in bruises and scratches, and was rife with aches and pains, but nothing of importance had been damaged.

My eyes, along with some quick explanation from our Guide, filled in the blanks that my other senses hadn't. We were in a space surrounded by chunks of white marble in different sizes, ranging from the size of a fist to larger than a car. The floor's collapse had dropped us a fair distance, and I'd been incapacitated by a rock to the head during the fall. Moriah had managed to catch me and Alfons with her string, and slowed the fall just enough by clinging to the walls. That made twice in a day that she'd saved my life.

Our current situation was less dire, but still undesirable. Using more of those miracle strings, leverage, and some luck, Moriah had managed to carve out a space for us after the decidedly rough landing. Our sole source of illumination was a German-made electric torch bobbing centimetres below the mass of rocks that was the ceiling. I first caught sight of Alfons as he worked to lug some rocks out of the way in hopes of finding an exit. The bloody stain on his jacket remained, but he showed little difficulty in moving.

_"So you survived,"_ I greeted him in German. He spun, eyes wide, before relaxing ever so slightly, leaving plenty of tension behind.

"Aye," he responded in English. "Your Guide stitched my stomach back together after the fall. I owe her my life."

"We both do," I agreed, keeping my tone light. "What's the situation at the front?"

"Our offense has been blunted, but we yet live. If we can find a way to break through, victory is still a real possibility. Three or four battles remain that can tip the balance to one side."

"Or one."

"Or one," he agreed.

The torch winked out, its weak battery drained. With a soft cry of "_Licht_" a mage light appeared in Al's hands. He stared at it for a moment before releasing it to float upwards.

"Where's the contract?"

He looked up. "The what?"

"The contract," I growled, throwing him off guard. "She had to have made you sign one if you're up and about like this. Don't play games with me, boy." I couldn't reach my pack, but Miss Daisy was still in her holster. One of my hands twitched, and Alfons flinched in response to it.

Moriah cut off whatever he was about to say next by shoving a rolled up scroll in my face. Al closed his mouth, looking as if he'd smelt something disgusting.

I unrolled the parchment and skimmed it. While the language was a tad dry, the contract was binding. Alfons would be under Moriah's protection until we were in a safe place, where we would split with a promise not to impede each other for twenty four hours. As a trade-off, he would have to seek our best interests as well. The standard escape clauses were there for both sides: Betrayal, accidents, new information, mutually contradictory goals, everything was accounted for. A copy of the contract has been Recorded, though I wouldn't say it was worth the miniscule amount of prana.

There were complaints I could have made there, but I decided against the idea. Moriah and the boy obviously had some kind of history together. Attacking Al would be too dangerous if the possibility of it angering her existed, and he didn't much seem like a grifter. Besides, I _did_ owe her my life twice over.

"You aren't packing?"

"Searched," Moriah replied, wisely cutting Al off. "A pistol with an extended magazine in front of the trigger, and a ceremonial pocket knife. They were confiscated without significant protest."

"The gun, did it have a red 9 inscribed on the handle?"

"_Ja._"

I paused, looking over at Alfons. "Your dad's? He fight in the first war?"

He made to say something, decided against it, and nodded weakly.

"Thought so." I set down the scroll and took the offered weapon, looking it over. A genuine Mauser, with only a few ivory carvings signifying that it was once used as a Mystic Code. "You're a second or third son of a minor magus family," I began. "I'm guessing you enlisted with pop's help to earn glory or whatever it is fools chase these days. You weren't a very good soldier, so no one would miss your sudden disappearance. After getting that letter, you probably hired the first two magi in town willing to work with you and rushed here with nothing but what you had on your back, somehow managing to stumble into this place through sheer luck and circumstance." I fixed my eye on the boy, who was vacillating between anger and anxiety. "Am I wrong?"

He responded to my question with a wavering glare.

I sighed and turned back to the Mauser in my hands, turning it over and feeling the surface with my fingers. It had been kept in good condition, more because it had seen very little use than from any effort on its owner's part. Eventually I handed it back to Al minus the firing pin, which I discreetly pocketed. He clutched the weapon tightly, probably anticipating the moment he'd use it to put a bullet through my head. "Keep it," I told him. "Just watch whose back you point it at."

"We have been clearing a way out," Moriah said after I was done with the contract, but before Al could speak. Girl was doing most of the boy's talking for him, which was probably for the best. "It appears that this is a whole new section of the structure. And this one… has yet to be explored."

So we wouldn't have the luxury of people having already set off the traps for us. Not that it mattered. The chances of survival weren't high for any of us. Archie was probably paste already, ruining yet another potential paycheck.

With a grunt, Alfons pulled a particularly large chunk of floor away, revealing, an empty hall beyond a rather tight squeeze. At least he'd be useful for manual labour.

"Well," I glanced through the hole and stared into an expanse of darkness that stretched out farther than our pathetic light could reveal. "It's about to be."

The response to my particularly well-timed quip was not an appreciative clap or respectful silence, but a low, guttural rumble directly above my head. Operating on that instinct for self preservation all humans possess, I yanked my head back just in time for a particularly large rock shaped much like a teardrop and the size of a horse to drop from above, landing with a crack and a thud onto the ground, coincidentally sealing the small exit that Alfons had managed to open.

I prepared another comment on the situation, but the laws of gravity beat me to it. In response to the boulder's flight, the entire canopy above our heads let out similar groans and grunts as rock scraped against rock and pieces shifted against each other. One chunk of floor, even larger than the teardrop and floating flat over our heads, fell a foot or so, halting abruptly a few inches from Al's terrified mug.

"That," Moriah grunted. "Was a load bearing rock. The ceiling appears to be falling."

As if to agree with her, several rocks, ranging in size from pebbles to fist-sized pieces of marble, rained from the ever lower ceiling. I batted one away and it broke to pieces against the floor.

"Push!" I told Al.

He moved with surprising quickness. He pressed against the large teardrop and put his weight against it, achieving nothing more than wasting his energy for a few seconds. The ceiling dropped another inch.

"It's not moving!" he shot back.

"Reinforcement!" I braced myself against the ceiling, trying to slow its shuddering descent. Moriah moved next to me, her back bent and straining. A web of wires stretched from her hands, which had begun to bleed profusely.

"I'm already reinforced!"

"Not you, the rock! Break it open!"

He paused, and then shoved more prana than I could muster in a day into the rock all at once. A bright blue light shone from his hands, and with a sound like a light bulb exploding he was propelled backwards, landing on his back with his hands steaming lightly.

"The entire place is warded against such things," Moriah said quickly, only barely suppressing the pain and fear in her voice. "We cannot damage it with magecraft." As if to mock her, the ceiling fell further, forcing me to one knee. The mage light flickered.

The next ten seconds were spent in relative silence as we each took the time to come to terms with our situation. Al was resigned. He'd expected to die earlier, so no doubt it wasn't so hard to let go of the will to live again. Moriah I couldn't read. As for me…

"Can you do that partitioning trick of yours?" I asked my Guide. "Perhaps come up with something?"

She blinked at me, confused. "No," she eventually said weakly. "Not in this situation. I've never done it under stress." The rock sank another few inches, but it felt like my spine was being bent like a steel rod. Alfons moved to my other side and braced against it, but his efforts did little good.

"What about your wires? They were holding everything up just fine earlier."

"I have little raw strength on my own. I need to use leverage, angles, distribution of force..." She was starting to panic now. I could hear it in her voice.

"Okay." I ground my teeth together, hearing only rumbling, both in my muscles and from the ceiling. We needed to both get rid of the rock blocking our way out and stop ourselves from being flattened, a death that would be embarrassing for any magus.

"Okay," I repeated. "Loop your strings around this big thing here. Make a net and distribute the weight evenly. Can you wire it to the other rocks?"

A pause. Her fingers twitched, and I heard the faint sound of metal scraping against stone. "I've already done so," she said. "But they cannot take the weight for longer than a minute before breaking themselves. It is too heavy."

"That's fine. Just take the weight off of us for a moment." The pressure lessened, if only slightly. "Now do the same to that boulder stopping our way out. After that, throw the strings over the rubble and tie them to the ones holding up the ceiling."

She caught on quickly enough. Her eyes widened and her fingers twitched, performing the deed instantly. "It is _done_," she breathed.

"Dash to the exit on three." I made eye contact with both of my companions. They each nodded.

"Three."

We ran as one, ignoring the impending doom above us as we rushed forward. The exit was closed, and the ceiling fell behind us. Suddenly the blockage rose, pulled up by the other's fall just in time for Moriah to dive through, followed by Al and finally me. I barely managed to pull my backpack through before the entire thing caved in, leaving us stranded in yet another dreary, sandy mess.

"Well." Al sat up, wearing a self-defeating grin. "That could've been worse."

I got to my feet and stretched out my back, feeling the bones pop. "It will be," I said. "It will be."

In situations like mine, it helps to realize that it takes a special kind of person to build a tomb that also kills whoever visits it. Most people tend to be obsessed with the present or the next few years. Rarely do you find someone who would much rather muse on the endless, unpredictable future than more immediate problems such as war, getting fed, and making babies. It takes that kind of rare person to purposefully design a structure that will not only be lethal to anyone who dares breach it, but will last for thousands upon thousands of years.

It doesn't help that most of those people happen to be magi. The rest are alchemists.

When navigating a structure thousands of years older than your grandfather's grandfather and filled to the brim with dead ends, misleading directions, and traps only a sadist could have come up with, it's always a good idea to be paranoid to the point of absurdity. Upon knowing that tidbit, it takes little thought to come to the conclusion that magi are uniquely suited to such a task. Such a conclusion would only be mostly correct. Even more important than paranoia is pessimism. A slightly stranger concept to grasp, but in hindsight, an obvious one.

The primary purpose of a trap is to kill, maim, or otherwise inconvenience you for a variety of reasons, usually because you're taking a stroll in a place you shouldn't be. The secondary purpose of a trap is to make you think it isn't, in fact, a trap. It may be hidden underneath the floor, in the walls, above the ceiling, within a wall mural, erased from the visible spectrum until it is activated, temporally shifted so that it only exists the moment you run into it, sitting in an alternate dimension that will release it when the time is right, or even wearing the skin of your recently deceased friend and walking by your side. A trap could be masquerading as a hall, a doorway, a switch, some sand, a common object, the air itself, your companion's map, a small animal, and even the idea of hope. Yes, there are traps that will only kill you when your brain secretes certain juices linked to optimism and the sad, unreliable belief that everything will be okay.

It will most certainly not be okay. Not with that kind of attitude.

Always expect the worst. Carve the fear of death into your body, and terror at even more horrible things into your soul. See things where there are none, and you may glimpse something that wasn't intended to be seen. Imagine yourself as a rat in a maze, and try to enter the mind of the sick bastard who decided to torture that rodent. Learn, observe, fear, and you might just avoid getting bumped off.

That's half of what you need to know. The other half cannot be so easily taught.

After a few tentative probes into the hall, Moriah confirmed that it was relatively safe, and we continued with little fuss. Our Guide especially let out a relieved sigh when her strings snaked back into her pocket. Her hands had bled enough that the bandages I applied turned red within seconds, and it was easy to detect the smell of copper hovering around her body like an overly persistent admirer. I'd have preferred it if she had complaints. Instead, she ignored her wounds much like I ignored mine, while Al loudly fussed over a bump on the head he'd received during our near-death experience.

When I got the chance to evaluate our temporary ally in a slightly less cramped area, my opinion didn't change much. He was young, too young to be wearing his badge, and very slight, with a body more fit for a dancer than a soldier. He bore the fine features of nobility well, but lacked the hard look in his eyes that signified someone who knew the horrors of war. Upon noticing my roving gaze, he quickly looked away and shifted uncomfortably. He would be a liability, but betrayal was unlikely.

"Am I to go first?" He tried to peer through the veil of darkness that hovered over the hall.

I shook my head, pushing past him. "No. You'd just get yourself killed. I'm taking point." I could have let him die, but the boy was practically harmless, and he knew Moriah. Despite everything I already preferred him to Archie.

"You are in no condition to do so," Moriah said, her brows furrowing.

"Perhaps, but neither is he, and you're our biggest asset. Just stick to translating and checking for general traces of magecraft with those strings of yours. I'll tell you if I need something specific. Both of you keep circulating prana in case of a mental attack." I wasn't about to fall for that trick again, even if I had to scrape together the last dregs of od I could extract from my protesting body. It would've been too kind of the bugger who built this hole to leave some mana floating around.

As for what occurred, describing several hours of ponderous advancement is something I'll save for the official report. Here, a small summary will suffice. Excuse the lack of detail, as at the moment of writing my head feels like Uncle Sam's troops have been using it for target practice.

Retreating up the shaft we had fallen proved to be a lost cause as soon as Alfons brought up the idea. The entire thing was packed with rubble, so much so that it would take at least a week to clear it all away even with a dozen workers and more food than our pockets could hold. Moriah did snake one of her strings through and confirm that we'd fallen about two stories, which in this case means two lengths of a rather out-of-place Spitfire's wingspan. It meant we hadn't fallen very far, but on the other hand, she also confirmed that Archie hadn't been crushed to death by rocks. That left only proceeding into newly charted territory.

The hall we exited into was significantly smaller than the ones upstairs and relatively unadorned, likely because this level of the structure wasn't meant to be as well travelled by as the one above. There were no gems and intricate carvings lining the walls, though sand still littered the floor in annoying abundance, and a few strings of hieroglyphs still crawled across the well worn stone.

When Alfons asked Moriah whether they could be useful, he was met with a silent denial. I had to insist on an elaboration to extract a more cohesive answer.

"They are simple labels with directions," she explained. "Though the descriptions are crude, they can be approximated to modern meanings. Chemical storage. Secondary Lab. Disposal. Bedroom. The top floor was likely designed to handle intruders, while this one housed all of the important facilities. It is all one large Workshop, but the owner is long dead."

"Maybe not," I muttered to myself.

She shot me an inquiring glance. "What did you say?"

"Nothing." I shook my head. "Just an idle thought. Does one of these labels show the way out?"

A negative there as well, though she promised to read every single one in case it could help. Blindly looking for a staircase of some kind remained our objective, and the search wasn't easy.

We ran into the first complication when we reached a four way intersection after about five minutes of walking. I felt a spear of lava shove itself into my right eye socket, searing my brain with insistent demands to turn back. The compulsion was quickly dismissed, but I couldn't see out of that eye for a quarter hour. The other two handled it better with my warning. Moriah told me it was a sort of verification mechanism for familiar faces, but, lacking the key to its lock, the knowledge was useless to us.

Seeing as two of the directions lead to the Waste Disposal and Sleeping Quarters, we took the unmarked hall, making sure to avoid the thin string of prana that had been stretched between its walls at about knee height near the entrance. Moriah refused to tell me what it would have set off, but I gather that it wouldn't have been pretty.

From there, we passed by several identical intersections, each one very lightly guarded with a compulsion, a simple tripwire, or both. After two dozen such halls, my rough map was beginning to resemble a blocky spiral extending outwards from where we'd fallen, with the inner and outer spokes ending in sad points rather than fully explored rooms. Other than their defenses, the only thing that differed was the labels on the walls, each one having different meanings. We considered exploring some of the marked rooms, but Moriah was outvoted on the matter after a quick debate. Alfons and I saw little point in investigating more thoroughly, considering our strict time limit and the pressing need to secure a way out of the labyrinth.

Of course, irony being what it is, we were eventually presented with an opportunity too enticing to let go of. As we passed by yet another intersection and I endured yet another spike of pain, Moriah halted us, pointing out a label. All of them being gibberish to me, it wasn't until she gave us a translation that we realized her point.

"Divination."

Our Guide's argument was solid. A workshop designed to aid in seeing the future is invaluable to an alchemist, and one created using long lost magic will be even more effective. Promises of information and possibly even a way out were difficult to refuse, so I chose not to, though Alfons still voted against the idea and was summarily overruled by the unofficial democracy we'd established.

There was nothing barring our entrance to the divination chamber. No traps could be detected, and we braved it with less trepidation than we should have had. After a very short walk, we came to a set of rough stone doors without handles, but positively rotten with nonsense carvings that snaked their way across and through the stone as if a particularly zealous rock-worm had decided to have its feast there.

Pushing aside Alfons's plea to just push the damn thing open already, I had Moriah get a feel for the interior mechanisms of the portal. She ended up discovering a series of sensitive latches that would lead to something quite nasty if proper precautions weren't taken. While she kept them deactivated with those wonderfully useful wires, Al and I managed to push open the millennia-old gate.

The inner chamber was dustier than an old speakeasy and smelled of enough alcohol to rot a man's gut ten times over. We had to wait a quarter hour simply for it to air out before entering, and when we did, the smell lingered on everything. There's a certain uncomfortable feeling one gets when barging into another's home uninvited, and that's exactly how it felt looking through the place.

The divination room was, on its own, slightly larger than my own meager workshop. Stone shelves packed with urns and other sealed containers lined the walls, and metal fixtures hanging from the low ceiling held ancient lamps with oil that we didn't trust enough to try. Instead, Al's flashlight, with its new batteries, served well enough. Along the edges of some walls, underneath the shelves, were various flat surfaces hewn of smooth rock, likely meant for delicate rituals. Several compartments reminiscent of drawers underneath said prototypical tables held crumbling papyrus and other supplies, which we dared not touch.

The primary attraction of the room, though, wasn't any of the previous fixtures. Instead, what captured our attention upon entering was the large, circular pool of perfectly clear water that sunk into the floor and took up a good chunk of the available space. The bottom was a delicate mosaic of azure and jade, forming an image that was either birds swimming across a clear sky, or fish flying through the ocean. It more resembled the stained glass windows in a chapel than the blocky hieroglyphs and illustrations it should have originated from. With a radius about equal to a metre or two royal cubits and a depth I estimate to be less than the length of my shortest finger, it was immediately obvious what the thing's purpose was, even if I had no idea how it was to be used.

Neither, it appeared for a moment, did Moriah.

"I…" Aghast is the best word for it, I feel. I could easily see the gears turning in her head as she stared, for a full minute, at the thing, while Al rummaged blindly through the shelves, occasionally making a noise of disgust as he found a pickled snake liver or phoenix heart. "I can use this, but it will take some time," she said eventually, oblivious to his bumbling about.

I leaned against one of the few bare spots on the wall. "There's no rush. We can wait."

"Outside."

"Huh?"

She shook her head, refusing to look me in the eye, and continued in a wavering voice, "Wait outside. I have to do this alone. There is an 83% chance that your presence would throw off the alignment of the chakras."

Al piped up. "Mor, isn't that a Hindu expression-?"

"Right, outside." Grabbing him by the ear, I dragged the disgruntled German out of the room before he could clumsily punch through her lie. A flimsy but opaque screen slid across the door courtesy of some creative wiring, and Moriah called back telling us to wait at the intersection for a half hour at least. Silencing the boy's protests, we did as she bid, settling down a few feet from one of the tripwires.

He turned on me in an instant, face scrunched up and livid. "What was that!?"

"Make a light."

"But-!"

"Mind your own business. You ain't a Dick, so don't act like one. Now make a light."

With some prodding, he conjured up another mage light. I brushed off any of his attempts at conversation or questioning, and eventually he fell silent, sitting at my back as we kept our eyes on the empty halls. I began writing this entry then. Al only moved to take out a pocket watch and glance at it every so often. If he'd paid as much attention to the situation as he did the time, I'd wager that life wouldn't be so keen on giving him strange draws.

After exactly thirty minutes had passed, he stood up. "I'm going to check on her."

"Sit down, you fool."

"No."

I didn't dissuade him from going back. Couldn't be bothered to. Al returned a few minutes later, considerably redder in the face and sufficiently humbled to sit down and shut up without my direction.

I grinned. "Was the sight worth it?"

He shook his head numbly. "She'll be there for a while," he said eventually. "Should we explore ahead?"

"No need," I told him. "We're going through there no matter what, so it's better to do it with all three of us. Besides, you wouldn't want a big, scary monster coming here and attacking our biggest asset while she's so vulnerable."

He shuddered at my last word, but nodded and sat down.

I don't know why I felt so cheerful then, for there was little to be happy about other than the youth's obliviousness or Archie's hypothetical demise, but I certainly welcomed the fuzzy feeling of relaxation that came despite the dark, unknown environment and the certainty that these halls did not welcome intruders. Perhaps it was birthed from the knowledge that we'd fallen as far as we could go, and that we stood only to gain from here, or maybe my tired body simply could not sustain a surly mood for so long. Either way, one could attribute my behaviour in the following hour to the excess imbibing of alcohol, and it would be a perfect fit.

"Hey, kid."

Al 's watch snapped shut and he stuffed it in a pocket before glaring at me with naked suspicion in his eyes. "What?" he snapped.

"You never told us how you ended up here," I observed. "Now's a good a time as any."

"I'd rather not," he replied tersely.

"I wasn't asking." I flipped idly through the pages of the boy's Scribe's journal, skimming over the notes. "There are a few things I want to know. This journal doesn't say how you got in, and it cuts off right before the juicy bits."

He didn't speak for a moment, and then: "You aren't a Dick," he said. "So don't act like one. What happened to minding your own business?"

"As a matter of fact," I said. "I _am_ a Dick. Even got the business cards for it. Needling people like you is part of the job description."

"Not a very desirable job for a magus."

"Doesn't need to be. Bills don't care if you can incinerate a horse with a snap of your fingers."

Al shook his head, but I spotted the smile creeping up on his face even as he tried to hide it. "The contract prevents me from harassment and torture."

"You're the one who signed it," I shot back, leaning my head against the stone wall and gazing at the boy through lidded eyes. "That geas isn't mine to bear."

He shrugged. "And if you break it, neither will it be mine. Moriah worked hard writing it, so I'd suggest you not ruin her work because of a bit of curiosity."

"Curiosity's the reason we're here, kid." I opened one eye all the way. "You're not gonna find one who lets go of it so easily."

"An impasse, then? I refuse to answer and you refuse to go far enough to force one?"

"I have a better idea," I took a swig from my canteen to wet my dried lips, and continued. "You give me your story, and I'll promise you one of mine. An equal exchange of information."

He harrumphed, but I saw the spark in his eyes. Magi are inquisitive creatures by nature. Their thirst for knowledge cannot be quenched so easily. Even if he had no interest in my story, the mere prospect of new information had Alfons salivating.

A hesitant nod was enough to tell me my bet had paid off.

"What do you wish to know?"

"How about your _Fuhrer's_ plans for the war?"

"No."

I lowered the bar. "The motivation for your mission?"

"I'll pass."

"You and the alchemist ever shack up?"

"_No_!" he sputtered. "Be serious!"

"Hey, it's got to be a good story. Don't be keeping all the best ones to yourself. How about you tell me who made that hole in your gut and left you for dead?"

The small smile that had been creeping its way up Al's face fell flat. His eyes narrowed, yet he stared not at me, but at his right hand, which had tightened into a fist. "A good story?" He spat the words as if they were pure poison. "Perhaps it is. I wouldn't know. Someone seems to have snatched it away."

The effects of memory manipulation are usually fairly easy to discover, but not for the person whose memory has been tampered with. Someone visiting a museum will notice right away if a painting happens to be crooked, but from the perspective of the painting itself, it's the world that doesn't make sense. At the same time, memories are tricky little things, flowing like a watery gas through flesh, energy, and soul. Unless there's a hole in your pipe, you'll rarely ever be able to fully drain the water.

This poor bastard, though, seems to have had his head cracked open and its contents scooped out with the care a stepfather gives the previous husband's son. I've seen my share of odd capers, but this one takes the cake: Nabbing a magus's memories without a single soul noticing the heist.

Al didn't remember a damn thing since he and his flunkeys had stumbled into the large chamber. One moment they were walking and talking, and the next, he was waking up with his guts hanging out and a string wrapped around his wrists. Not even the cryptic warning he'd given me had survived the cleaning. He got all balled up just trying to recall what the interior had looked like. The boy's claim was so patently ridiculous that I was inclined to trust it, even though it raised a dozen more questions than it answered.

Thinking back, I can't really remember what happened in that room either. I'd just dismissed it because of my circumstances, so it took me this long to realize there was something wrong with my memories. I'd bet if we asked Moriah, she would also be unable to recall anything. The Record survived, though, so the knowledge of what happened is still in my Crest even if it isn't in my head. I fired up the old machine just to see what I'd missed, and it wasn't pretty.

"We're not alone," I told Alfons. "Four people came into that room, but five left it."

"I… don't understand."

"Here," I transcribed part of the Record onto paper and handed it to the boy. "If you want a German translation, that'll take a bit more time."

Upon reading what I'd written, he paled in the dim light. "I know," he whispered, more to himself than to me. "I know what this is."

"You do?"

Alfons looked me in the eyes, and I saw the fear in his own. "The weapon I was sent here to acquire," he told me, his voice shaking. "We thought it was some kind of artifact or ritual, but the truth is even worse."

"We've woken up a God."


	7. Fourth Entry (Part Two)

When an ordinary person starts talking to you about God, you either tell them to get out and never solicit your front door again, or you empathetically agree with them right before bothering a sleepless private eye in the middle of the night with useless brochures and leaflets, knowing full well that the last thing he needs is people trying to feed him useless bull when he's got important things like money to worry about.

When a magus starts talking to you about God, you listen, unless you happen to be me.

"Say that again," I said.

Alfons obliged. "We've woken up a god."

I took a few moments to make sure I'd heard him right before trusting myself to reply. "Kid, you're a few thousand years too late to be spouting that kind of rubbish."

"I know."

"The gods are gone."

"Most of them are, yes."

Obviously I wasn't getting through to him. "_All_ of them," I insisted. "It's why we don't call it the Age of Gods anymore. You won't find a real deity anywhere. Not the Vatican, as much as they'd claim otherwise, and not even in some tiny, remote village full of people who've been worshipping the same obscure nature spirit for a thousand years while everyone else was busy inventing electricity."

I could see the boy's brows furrowing. "But-"

"No buts. One of your philosophers said it already: God is dead. There's no use in arguing against it." Normally I'm not one to hammer the point in so thoroughly, but there are only so many conspiracy theories one can take before putting his foot down.

Showing more spine than I'd have thought he had, the young magus told me, in no uncertain terms, to shut up and let him get more than a word in edgewise. "A Scribe is supposed to listen, not blabber on about things he barely understands," he said, standing in the dim hall and looking down at me. The mage light highlighted Alfons' features in strange ways, obscuring half of his face in shadow and emphasizing the other, colder parts. "Aye," he continued after pausing to await a protest I'm man enough to admit I was too shocked to give. "God, or rather, all of the gods, are dead, faded, slaughtered by the weakening of magecraft and birth of civilization. They do not, however, have to _remain_ dead."

There's not much you can say in response to something that silly, and he knew it, pressing his advantage by beginning to pace about the narrow confines of the hall. "I am a necromancer by trade, Scribe," Alfons said as if reciting a story he'd been told a thousand times. "For hundreds of years, my family has dabbled in the art of life and death, plumbing the fabric of such concepts. You may think me young and foolish. Continue to do so. I have no objections to put forth in regards to that matter."

"However," he wheeled around, twisting on his heel in a way only rich people can get down, and looking me in the eye. By this time I had stood, and it quickly became apparent that he was just as tall as me. "Do not presume to question my knowledge. It isn't yours to criticize." His right hand opened, revealing a mass of fur that had once been white, but was now matted with blood. One of Archibald's familiars.

"Crushed to death," Alfons observed, speaking with a familiar clinical detachment that never fails to set me on edge. "Major internal bleeding, but the cause of expiration was lack of oxygen to the brain. It's been dead for over an hour. Modern science can no more revive this sack of flesh than any other rotting corpse. Would you say it's possible to bring such a thing back to life at this point?"

"Well, yes," I said, feeling like a schoolchild asked to answer that quintessential question of what one plus one is. "Just turn it into a familiar."

"Of course," he nodded. "Gather up the leftover fragments of this creature's soul and mix in some of your own life force to hold them together. Throw it in the body along with a spark of prana to fix the injuries, and you've got your hands on an obedient automaton, or, if you happen to be a child, a pet that will live just as long as you do."

He closed his hand, bunching it up into a fist. I heard the crunching of fragile bones snapping, but when his fingers released their hold, a spotless white mouse scampered up Alfons' wrist and arm, perching on his shoulder and fixing me with a beady glare.

"The same can be done to a human."

"Illegally," I observed, and Al nodded. The mouse nodded along with him.

"Of course, such a practice is discouraged, but mortal laws don't make something impossible. Let's continue. What of a large creature, such as an elephant?"

"Well, there's its innate magic resistance to consider-"

"It is possible, though difficult. How about something more esoteric? A salamander or another minor magical creature, perhaps?"

He didn't even wait for my answer this time, launching into a well practiced speech I wouldn't be surprised to hear at a Clock Tower lecture. "The answer is, of course, yes. It will continue to be yes, even if I start talking about unicorns and dragons and things that no longer exist. Remnants of them are still around, of course, but you'll not find one on its own, living or dead. The burden on the magus rises as the complexity of the target grows, but making something a familiar is always a viable option, provided it is dead and its body has been properly preserved."

"I know what you're suggesting."

He put on a smug grin, waiting for me to say the words that would declare him correct. The rodent chattering away on his shoulder only made him look more like a renegade magus. "And?"

"And it's a crock. No one's ever done something like that, and even if it were possible, gods don't leave behind bodies when they die. If they did, we'd still be studying them. As it is, we known next to nothing about the guys upstairs. We can't explain why they're gone; they simply are, and it was the world's will that it be so."

"And if one were to be preserved?" Alfons pushed past my argument as if it was made of paper. "If there was one that survived, or even left behind its corporeal shell? If said god was entombed by those who worshipped it, its body prepared and mummified to last thousands of years? What then, Scribe?"

"Then," I said, with a sense of finality. "We have the next Necronomicon."

My statement brought a blush to Al's cheeks, and all the bluster he'd been building up rushed out of him, leaving him looking like a school boy fresh from a scolding. "That's a low blow," he muttered softly, his furry companion hiding under a flap of cloth to avoid my stare.

I chuckled. "I'll say it again if that's what it takes to get your head out of the clouds. How many otherwise respectable magi went looking for that book? Two hundred, was it?"

"Two fifty three."

"And of course we can't forget the entire regiment the Church sent to stop them from finding the tome. I'd say that makes five hundred, easily."

"The Church had no idea what it was doing."

"Which is why it succeeded, given that the bloody thing never existed in the first place."

The boy's protests weren't quite spent, leading me to believe that he himself had had some involvement in the affair. "Lovecraft was a convincing writer! It's possible his visions were legitimate!"

"It's altogether more likely that he was another unhinged guy writing colourful stories about deep sea creatures. Don't spend your time spinning up crazy theories when you have next to no information, kid. Your hypothesis is impressive, but this ain't a talent show."

Alfons let out a weak groan of surrender. Even if he's got the magus routine down pat, he still has to keep it up all day, every day to get anywhere.

"Hey, don't get all worked up about it," I patted the sullen kid on the back. "Silly ideas are just what this world needs. Gather up enough of them and you'll end up with something amazing."

"I suppose – wait, did you hear that?" He raised his head, looking down the hall we had yet to explore, the one that led further into the unknown.

"Hear what?"

"Shh." Alfons' mouse peeked out from under his lapel. It crawled down his shoulder and onto the floor, where it skittered under the invisible tripwire that marked the intersection's border and vanished into the darkness. "There's someone there," he whispered. "Someone alone."

Miss Daisy was already in my hands before he'd finished talking. After some deliberation I returned the weapon to its holster and drew Miss Jane from my pack, making sure she was ready to belch out some death.

"It's coming closer," Alfons was saying, perfectly still. "My familiar can see it."

"Who?"

"No one I recognize."

I withdrew two shells from one of my pockets, cracking open the shotgun in my hands. "Give me a description."

"Tall," he said. "Thin. Very thin. Very… fuzzy. Almost like it's not all…" He trailed off abruptly.

The shells slid into the barrels and with a click, my trigger finger was ready to deliver some hot lead. "That's not helping."

"I… I don't know." He was panicking now. "I can't see it! It's there, but… but there's nothing there!"

"You're not making any sense."

"No," Alfons shook his head, lifting his arms and squeezing his skull between them, eyes screwed up with effort. "There's something… but there's nothing there. There was never anything there in the first place."

I could hear it approaching now. Slow, shuffling steps like a snake slithering through sand, were the only signs that we weren't alone. My body burned from the inside out as I forced my crest to activate.

"…why is your gun out?" Alfons looked at me as if I was insane. "What's wrong? Did something happen?" His hand was already going for his Mauser. A faint groan echoed from the hall. The kid's memory was going at the worst possible time, and I was beginning to realize why.

"Just shut up and get back. Warn Moriah." I cocked the hammers and put my fingers on the triggers, taking position against the wall so that I'd be able to lean out and shoot in less than a second. I didn't want to spare Al a second glance.

"Warn her of what? I don't understand what you're talking about!" But the gun was in the boy's hands and pointed straight at me, shaking slightly. Al's wide eyes looked at me as if I was crazy. "Don't shoot me," he pleaded as if I was some kind of monster, when in fact the true monster had yet to arrive. The same monster that had already erased itself from his perception.

"Just shut up!"

I whirled, spinning out from the corner, pointing my gun at the shambling grotesquerie before me, and pulled the trigger.

Smell woke me. Smell of dying, putrefaction, and slow, rotten collapse. Smell of week old corpse and open bullet wounds. Sickly sweet scent of life surrounded by death, a needle in my brain to bring back sensation, just to take it away.

Hung like dried meat. No solid ground, arms tied above my head, bones creaking. Cold, flat, rough stone tore cloth and skin.

Heard voices. One voice, to the right. A boy releasing pained whispers. No reply. No reply needed.

A shuddering breath. Not mine. Not his. Not human. Tortured lungs sucked in air like a drowning man. Talking stopped and started in bursts.

Eyes opened, saw flickering light. A sconce, throwing out shadows on wall. Largest was unfamiliar. New. Terrifying.

Thought it was a human-sized puppet at first. Was wrong. Very wrong. It was tall, with awkward proportions and skin buried beneath bandages. Bandages covering arms, legs, everything, stretching along ceiling and wrapped around wrists. My wrists. Alfons' wrists, as he hung before it. Bandages covered in scribbles and bullet holes and rusted charms. And blood.

It looked at me. There was no face, only a screaming stone mask with fangs and empty eyes. No, not empty. Two red dots in darkness, boring into my mind.

It laughed. I closed my eyes.

Memory slipped away.

The screams woke me. The sound of pain inflicted on a helpless being. The sound of a soul suffering. The kind of stuff you hear in your nightmares, weeks later.

I hung. There was no solid ground under my feet. My arms bore all my weight, tied together above my head. I felt cold, flat, and rough stone at my back.

Someone to my left screamed. A girl, letting tortured pleas to stop slip from her lips. She paused to take a weak breath, and then the torture resumed. No reply. Her cries only escalated in intensity. It was terrible enough to make me wish for deafness.

Someone, not me, inhaled. The rasping sound wasn't human. It was the sound of withered lungs greedily sucking in air. The screaming stopped, and resumed shortly.

I opened my eyes to weak light. A sconce was lit, throwing shadows against walls of the familiar room. One, the largest, was alien to me.

At first I thought it a life-sized puppet wrapped in bandages. _It_ stood tall before Moriah. She hung like me by flat ropes that stretched across the ceiling and into the creature. Linen circled and embraced the thing, hiding it beneath tools of mummification. Some coverings bore holes from my buckshot. Gibberish was inked on to the rest.

Slowly, it looked at me. Instead of a face, there was a mask. A stone mask, with flakes of gold leaf. Etched into it was timeless rage and inhuman fangs. In the empty eye holes, two tiny red dots appeared, staring through me.

Beneath its mask, the thing laughed, and my eyes closed of their own accord.

My mind fell into darkness, shedding memories like a snake.

It was the taste that woke me up. The taste of red, the tang of copper in my mouth and sliding down the back of my throat, and more: The sick, burning bile that had risen unbidden from my stomach, mixing with my lifeblood to create a putrid poison I wished only to expel. Autonomously I swallowed, forcing it all down.

I was hanging. My feet couldn't touch solid ground and my arms were tied together above my head, protesting as they were forced to handle my weight. Cold, flat, rough stone tore at my back.

The room was silent, save for the sound of something hard clicking against something else. Like the shuffling of jars on a shelf, or someone rummaging between ingredients to find something with which to best season the desiccated corpse on display.

Someone took a shuddering breath, and it wasn't me. The rasping sound couldn't have come from any human. It was the sound of tortured lungs sucking in air like a greedy landlord sucks in money. The clicks stopped, and resumed shortly.

I opened my eyes to dim, flickering fire light. One of the sconces in the divination room was lit, throwing long shadows against walls, the most prominent of which belonged to something I'd never seen before.

At first I mistook it for a mannequin, so wrapped up in bandages it was, but that false impression vanished instantly. The grotesque thing stood taller than any man before one of the shelves, with flat, discoloured ropes stretching across the ceiling and towards my arms, where I would guess they wrapped tightly around my wrists. Nothing could be seen of its actual self. Swathes of linen circled and embraced the thing, hiding all beneath tools of mummification. Some of its coverings carried inscriptions in nameless writings that I'd never understand even if I had years to study them, while others were merely stained with age and miscellaneous fluids. Charms and old jewelry were woven between fabric, several blackened and falling apart from age.

The thing raised one hand, holding up a throbbing, beating heart that leaked juices down a yellowed hand covered in yet more bandages. The heart was brought to the creature's face, and the most disgusting sound of animal feasting permeated the room, loud crunches and smacking lips dragging up shudders of disgust from my pained body.

Slowly, oh so slowly, the thing turned its tightly bound face towards me. I saw a cracked mask that must have at one point borne jewels and expensive dyes and gold leaf, but had been snapped in half, leaving only the top part sticking resolutely to the thing's bandaged head. Two pinpricks of red appeared within the black emptiness, and although I can't confirm it, I knew they were staring right at me. Where the thing's mouth should have been was a yawning, gaping, empty hole, with red blood dripping down the surrounding linen in mystifying lines.

As a dry laugh assaulted my ears, consciousness and memory slipped from my grasp.

It was the pain that woke me. The burning, pounding headache that demanded attention, and its lesser counterpart, my circuits cracking under the pressure of a drain that I couldn't match even with my most wasteful spells. Primarily, however, it was the stabbing, twisting pain in my chest that demanded the most attention, merging the two with the cold numbness of blood being drained. Something was in my body, my very soul, ripping and tearing and taking what belonged to me and me alone.

I didn't open my eyes. Though I couldn't find a reason why, I knew that if I did, I would close them again all too soon. Instead I forced my crest to activate, doubling the pain and tripling my barely repressed anger. My body was breaking apart from the inside out. I felt blood running down from my nostrils and bones creaking as the circuits running through them threatened to rupture completely. Something was fucking with me, and I knew it more deeply than I had ever known anything.

My memories were empty, ending somewhere after drawing my gun and looking into darkness. I knew only that I knew nothing, and for a single, shameful moment, all that filled my soul was pain and empty despair. Then, instead of useless meat, I sought my Record, and there was the true bounty I'd gathered, coded in the feathers on my back, each one hand crafted to carry a legacy better than a weak mind ever could. I opened the book and read of torture and linen and the smell of death, and I understood. Someone was violating my mind, and that simply would not stand.

I opened my eyes and kicked that _something _right in the jewels.

There was no reaction. An unfamiliar yet familiar void was open in front of my face, inhaling deeply as if it was about to suck out my soul. Abruptly it retreated, as did the nonexistent jewels I'd tried to smash, revealing a monstrosity I'd never seen before yet knew all too well. Said monstrosity withdrew its misshapen hand from my chest and wrapped its long, bloodied fingers around my neck, cutting off the flow of diseased air to my lungs as well as the aria I had been most of the way through reciting.

That didn't matter. Something broke in my right eye, coating its surface and my vision with crimson, and the memory of that same aria rose out of my Record unbidden.

_"Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world,"_ I once prayed and hoped, as a child, _"but be transformed by the renewing of your mind."_

The infernal shackles that bound me were mere extensions of that thing's body, full of its vile prana and strengthened beyond my ability to break using physical means. Even if I had tried to Reinforce my muscles, it would have been nowhere near enough. Instead, I poured my own prana into the bindings, strengthening them further.

Old magecraft will always trump new magecraft, but Reinforcement is an art older than time itself. Before Merlin created a stone only Caliburn could pierce, before the Greek Gods crafted a golden net that would hold back even their King's mighty strength, one rock was made to break open another, more powerful one. Flaws were filled with prana, and the imperfect approached perfection.

I was not challenging the creature's magecraft, but the remaining flaws in the physical form of its tools. The designers of the catacombs had foreseen my rudimentary tactic and prepared for it. This mindless _thing_ didn't. The bindings hardened, becoming even more firm as I threw prana I couldn't afford to refine into it, until it was so full and so perfect that it couldn't handle the stress and disintegrated before my fingertips, freeing my hands to come down and pry the cold, dead claw off my throat.

Feet found ground, and my follow up straight met fabric and crunchy bone, sending the bastard reeling backwards like a drunk sailor. I didn't allow the thing to recover, taking another step forward and slashing at its throat Miss Daisy's bayonet, which I'd drawn from its holster in the chaos. The strengthened steel was stopped cold without a single puncture, only succeeding in giving my foe a chance to recover.

My foe… what foe? I was alone, standing dumbly in the middle of the room with no recollection of what I had done. There was nothing to remember, no recollection to peruse.

For what reason was I brandishing a weapon?

For what reason did my heart beat so quickly?

For what reason did my breath shudder, my bones quake, and my circuits scream?

There was no reason.

Yet there was. My mind was flawed. It had been born flawed, leaking memories like a sieve. It couldn't be trusted, couldn't be relied upon.

My Record, however, would not forget so easily.

I ducked, hearing the wall behind me crack from the strength of the punch alone, and dove left to escape the sharp spear of bone that extended from the mummified beast's body. It scraped my cheek, tearing through skin and little else Moriah still hung by a thread, and when the useless bayonet's edge failed to cut the rope holding her up, I dropped the instrument, grabbed the linen, and repeated my earlier trick, fully aware that every drop of prana I spent there would mean a day off my life in the end.

The inhuman laugh from earlier became an inhuman roar. The creature's punch turned into a swipe as its arm extended past what simple biology would've allowed. With my left busy, I braced my right arm and caught the blow, which cracked bone and left my ears ringing and world spinning. I felt the air displace, and Moriah dropped like a stone while I was left trying not to collapse into a pile of quivering flesh.

I wouldn't be able to carry both her and Alfons, who I saw struggling weakly in the corner of my eye. This fact, while troubling in the long run, quickly became irrelevant as ragged nails tore into my shoulder and pulled me towards the mummy's waiting embrace, full of more protruding ribs than the human body could hold, some of which still bore chunks of blackened, shrivelled flesh. It would turn me into a pincushion and consume me, just like it had no doubt done to others thousands of years ago.

My left hand moved forward of its own accord, thankfully missing all of the sharp points, and braced against the walking corpse's chest, halting my forward momentum with one of my eyes an inch from jagged marrow.

My right, meanwhile, found Miss Daisy still in her holster (apparently thousand year old dead men don't realize that guns are a threat) and didn't miss the opportunity to arm itself. I thrust the barrel of my gun into where I supposed the monster's heart ought to be, and pulled the trigger three times in quick succession.

I knew by the creature's laugh, forever imprinted in my Record, that I had failed. The sound of warped metal striking something hard made it clear that Miss Daisy's firepower had utterly failed to penetrate even the outer coverings. I looked up. That hole of a mouth was stretched into an inhuman grin, and its red pinprick eyes bored incessantly into my own, mocking my futile efforts.

I raised a leg, awkwardly braced it against the mummy's abdomen right below my arm, and pushed.

As it flew backwards, claws raked deeply across my right shoulder and arm, letting the outside reflect the inside. The pain was a drop in the bucket, though. More important was the sound of a few hundred pounds of nearly dead guy crashing into a few hundred pounds of most definitely dead animal bits. The mummy and its bindings became drenched in various fluids, glistening strangely in the torchlight.

There and then, I made a bet, wagering one of my two remaining bullets and more prana than I could afford to spare. The gun in my hand barked. The hammer descended, a microscopic design printed on its head inscribing a magical circle into the bullet, which in turn charged the simple piece of metal with a spell that would remain until activated, or until its energy reached a certain threshold. A certain level of prana inputted would produce a bright light. Twice that much…

A simple flame that produced almost no light spread like wildfire over its receptacle. Even if the bullet couldn't harm the mummy on its own, fire couldn't be ignored so easily. The flames spread all across the beast in reds and yellows and esoteric purples that couldn't possibly have been mundane, sending out strange shadows in the inadequately lit room. The creature screamed, finally showing an ounce of pain that I made sure to Record to savour later. Even as the memory of the event vanished from my mind, I read and understood it.

My last bullet broke through our German friend's weakened bindings, and he slumped to the ground in a dead faint as the flames started spread to the rest of the room as if they had a will of their own. After thinking about it, they probably did. With fire, you can never be _too_ sure. When one of the stray sparks caught a sleeve, I didn't hesitate to soak my arm in the pool on the off chance it could spread, leaving the water red.

With the interloper temporarily indisposed (I harbored no delusions that a bit of hot air would be able to down it forever)Miss Daisy went back in the holster, and I grabbed our unconscious Guide and threw her over my shoulder, trying to ignore how quickly the fabric of my shirt became stained with blood. Two people is too much for me to carry without being stuck moving like an eight hundred year old geriatric, so Alfons got a few sharp nudges in his stomach instead. That, along with the inhuman screaming in the background, was enough to wake him.

He looked up at me, his confusion evident and queries already tumbling from his mouth, but I silenced him with some well placed toes to the shin and a glance at the slabs of stone standing between us and the rest of this blasted ruin. Surprisingly, he seemed to get it, and scrambled towards the door, wedging his fingers in the gaps to get a good grip.

Abruptly, the screaming stopped, leaving only the roaring flames to send shivers down my spine. Against my better judgement I turned back to the other side of the room, to see the disturbingly human silhouette rising to its feet, outlined in otherworldly colours, with two burning dots of red staring hungrily at me.

For lack of a better option, and since a grenade would be more likely to blow someone's ear off than save us, I withdrew the empty gun, cracked it open, poured out the shells, and took a fistful of bullets from one of my pouches with my free hand.

"Scribe, what is that?" Alfons grunted.

"Nothing at all," I lied, looking at the empty spot where nothing stood, knowing full well that it was shambling towards me with all the coordination of a alcoholic father after a bad night out. "Don't look back and don't think about it."

"Your eyes-"

"I'll be fine."

The weight of Moriah on my shoulder made my movements clunky. My fingers slipped, and the first bullet fell to stone floor instead of cold metal. The second slid in, as did the third and fourth. By the time I snapped Miss Daisy shut, the heat had already summoned a bead of sweat from my forehead.

The first two shots struck true, making the creature stumble slightly as they ricocheted off of its kneecap, sending it sinking to one knee for an all too brief moment. The third and fourth were swatted out of the air, presumably by blazing tendrils, akin to flashes of light before my bleary eyes. The fifth bounced off the top of the thing's bandaged head, putting another crack in the stone mask, and the last slipped through its extended fingers and into one of its empty eyes.

This time the noise it made wasn't a product of pain or surprise, but something far more familiar.

The fucking thing was _angry_.

Conveniently, the rumble of stone grinding against stone pierced its inhuman wail. The door was open, and I didn't hesitate in squeezing through the narrow opening, back into the dark, musty hall. The German had already retreated.

Another sharp command and Alfons pulled the door closed, just in time for something to hit the other side hard, creating fissures that radiated outward from the center of the stone slabs. Alfons fell back as the mummy struck again, widening the cracks further.

"What is that!?" he repeated, his voice shrill.

"That's your 'god'. I suggest we make tracks."

"What?"

"Just run!"

He complied, just in time for the door to finally collapse and riddle everything around it with razor sharp stones. I made it out with only a few tears in my pant legs, but I heard Al hiss in pain a few feet behind me, even as he held aloft his electric torch to shine a jittery light forward. I awkwardly stepped over the trip wire and hung a sharp right in the crossroads, with him and the mummy at my heels. Past the second string of prana the hall was markedly different from the identical line of corridors we'd been presented with earlier. Someone (likely me) had fired off a half dozen rounds of buckshot and peppered the walls with lead. There were traces of burns on the stone, and the remains of what I assume had once been Al's mouse was scattered around a large puddle of murky water that took up most of the floor.

I'm not sure what compelled me to turn around then. Perhaps it was instinct, or the result of years of accumulated knowledge making itself visible in the most obtuse possible way. I like to think it was a hunch. Not skill or some sixth sense; merely an inkling with no real purpose or origin. I'm not delusional enough to think it was the Counter Force guiding my moves, but I wouldn't be shocked if that turned out to be the case.

I stopped a few feet down this new hall and twisted my upper body to look at the crossroads again. Alfons barrelled past me without stopping, and before my eyes a blazing figure leapt over the tripwire marking the boundary of the divination hall, using what I presume was our accumulated knowledge to avoid activating the unknown trap there. The raging flames lit up the creature's dark body; I saw fabric and the variety of charms sewn into it collapse before my eyes, falling as ash to the ground. The thing saw me with its remaining eye, in turn seeing itself from within my eyes.

It saw me raise my gun, one last bullet loaded and primed. It read my intent and stole it, understanding exactly what I would do, but was powerless to prevent it my finger from squeezing the trigger.

"Go back to sleep, you decrepit old bastard."

The bullet ripped through the tripwire, breaking the connection between two parts of an intricate magic system I can't even begin to understand. A spell that had been stored up for thousands of years was put into motion using prana drawn from the heart of the world. The spell could've been anything. It might've killed me instantly or drowned the entire complex in bone-searing acid. It was a blind guess, an all-in without even bothering to look at my hand.

One moment the mummy was in motion, hand stretched out towards us and swathes of wrappings coming to life to grab and choke and tear, and then the intersection was a mess of stone, stalactites and stalagmites erupting from the floor and ceiling to crush and maim and destroy anything that went came between them. A forest of rock had sprung up in an instant, quick enough to render the passageway impassible and obliterate anything foolish enough to be caught unawares, including the monster we'd woken up.

One hand dangled outside, at the very edge of the forest, hanging limp by a few threads. It twitched once, twice, and then was still.

"Wha… what was that?" Seemingly caught in an endless loop, Alfons could only repeat himself.

"Even if I tell you, you'll end up forgetting. C'mon, let's go. If it's even half as tough as I think it is, it'll be strong enough to tear us apart by the time it gets out of there."

Having said that, I wasted no time making heeding my own words. We ran, following the expanding spiral with the dual aim of putting as much room as possible between us and the monster, and getting out alive. I had to hand off our Guide to Al, who wasn't running on fumes and hope. More than once we had to double back and take another turn after stumbling into an unknown room rather than an exit, but Moriah wouldn't wake and neither of us was willing to wait for the mummy to escape and possibly catch us. The only stroke of good fortune I had was running into my pack a good distance down the hall. The straps were torn, but nothing seems to be missing.

Eventually, after what felt like far too long, our perseverance was rewarded, in a way. The weather-beaten staircase was unexpected; the draft of fresh air was a miracle. Ignoring my weak warnings to be careful, the interim Magus ventured up the steps with electric torch in hand, ascending upwards until his light was a pinprick in the darkness. He left us with only a forlorn mage light bobbing up and down above my head and doing a piss poor job at brightening the area. I heard Al's faint voice proclaiming that he could see the sun, but it was hollow and muffled, as if being spoken through a thick blanket.

Against my better judgement, I allowed myself to collapse with my back against the cool stone wall. Moriah had been propped up opposite me, and I can't say who among us was in worse shape. I know for certain that I've well and truly burned myself out, perhaps even to the point of permanent damage, but she was a mess. Her once lustrous hair had been torn from its braid and scattered about, and I was thankful that the darkness prevented me from more closely examining her wounds, which looked to have been purposefully kept shallow but numerous. If not for the slow rise and fall of her chest, I would've easily mistaken the girl for a murder victim.

At some point she must have opened her eyes, because I also vividly recall her looking at me with a sense of inexplicable horror mixed with pain and regret.

"What's wrong?" I croaked. "Never gotten roughed up before? You'll be fine."

"No," she said weakly, her voice almost as hoarse as mine from screaming. She drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them, shaking visibly. "None of us are 'fine'."

"I know you ain't feeling swell, but listen to me. We ran into something that eats up memories."

"No," she shook her head. "I remember. The old ones, their methods were incredible. I've never seen so clearly in my life. I saw the past, the future… I saw that thing heading our way, but by the time I returned to consciousness it was too late to do anything, just as it's too late for us. It was too late the moment we stepped into this cursed tomb."

"We've already made it," I said. "Forget about Archibald and that _thing_. Forget about those morbid visions of yours, dollface. The outside is just up those steps. Your German pal's gonna drag us up there, get us to the jeep, and drive back to that village so we can enjoy some shwarmas. Then we'll write to the Clock Tower and get Old Barty to take his battalion all the way here so he can burn this whole place to the ground. It'll be over within the week, and your predictions give us more than that."

"They've changed."

"…what?"

"They've changed!" she all but moaned, surging forward and seizing my lapels with a death grip. "The spike of prana that was supposed to happen hours before the incident? It's already done! We triggered it early, and that's shifted everything forward. We would have had three days, assuming everything went well, but you only made it stronger by burning it! There were charms, woven into the fabric to seal its power just like the rest of this place, and you destroyed them! That monster's beyond any one of us now. Archibald, the woman from the Church, Alfons? None of them will be able to scratch it once it wakes up again!"

"You're shaking me."

She didn't stop shaking me. A manic fury had overtaken the normally passive girl, either because of her brush with death or the vision she'd seen. I've heard that some people go mad after peering at the future too long. Perhaps this is the result of that. Or maybe it was just me, delirious from the pain. "There's nothing we can do," Moriah said, slumping against me as her sudden strength petered out. "Nothing." Her last declaration got caught in her throat, coming out choked. The fabric of my shirt, where the girl had buried her head, was suddenly wet with something that most certainly wasn't blood.

Even though they felt less like limbs and more like blocks of lead, I raised my hands and put them on my sobbing Guide's back. "It'll be fine," I repeated, slurring my words just the slightest bit. "Three days is plenty."

She didn't reply, so I kept yapping mindlessly. For once, I'm glad I can't remember her screams back then. If I did, I probably would've gotten up and limped back in there like a fool to try and finish what I'd started.

"That thing's not gonna touch you again. If it tries, I'll throw the whole damn desert at it," I promised.

Moriah's breathing hitched. I patted her head.

"C'mon. Crying doesn't suit those pretty eyes of yours."

Thankfully, I blacked out before I could hear her reply.


	8. Fifth Entry (Part One)

I'm in Cairo.

More specifically, I'm in the cellar of a boarded up pub on what's probably the only street corner that managed to escape shelling, writing this entry by firelight on a barrel of wine I wish I could partake of. But I can't. There's too much at stake to risk even a bit of intoxication. Right now Archibald is snoring upstairs and the alchemist is doing some kind of ritual in her room, while soldiers scan the streets looking for god knows what. Probably Nazis, maybe us.

Thinking about the previous day makes my head hurt. Spending so long underground has screwed up my sense of time. I know when I wrote the first entry I had a week, but now we have one or two days if we're lucky. There's too much going on, and my only hope of understanding it all is to put it down on paper. So that's what I'm doing. A better man than I could explain things in a paragraph or sentence, but I'll settle for telling this tale in chronological order and hoping it doesn't end with me dying a horrible death tomorrow.

Bit of a strange way to start an entry, I know, but I figured I'd get the important stuff out of the way first. A lot's happened, but it's hard to top a life-or-death struggle with an eldritch monstrosity in terms of impact, so I won't even try. I certainly don't want to relive those moments, and were my circuits in any state to attempt it, I'd be sorely tempted to simply erase the record all together and be done with the matter.

Unfortunately, I no longer have that luxury. None of us do.

I'm not sure when I woke up, but I know it wasn't a gentle rebirth. I'll spare a description of the various aches and pains, only to say that they made the previous day's wake-up seem exceedingly gentle by comparison. The only thing I could sense that didn't make me want to fall asleep again was a gentle breeze that tore across my face like an angry mother's backhand.

My sand-encrusted blinkers opened of their own accord to blinding sunlight, and I promptly squeezed them shut. Two cold implements each hooked on to an eyelid and proceeded to yank them apart, exposing a single orb to unbearable light, and something even more unbearable.

"Leave me alone, you no-good scum-sucking piker," I swore. "I'll give you lead poisoning if you don't scram right this goddamned instant!"

At least, that's what I'd planned to say. My throat was swollen and dry, so the words came out something like: "Mmrahaaaaaaaargh."

Lysander Octavius Archibald's ugly old face twisted into a self-satisfied grin at my pain, and my eye was allowed to slip shut again. "He's awake," I heard him proclaim. "You can stop fussing now."

"It is his mind I'm worried about." Compared to Archie, hearing Moriah was a godsend. It bumped the situation from 'worse than imminent death' to 'at least we'll die together'. "He faced that creature head on for an extended length of time. There could be… damage."

Her words hung in the sweltering air for a moment before the Magus gave his reply. "Poppycock," he said. "He seems just as intelligent as before. And don't call it a _creature_, that's insulting. It has a name." So do I, you bastard, but I've never heard you use it.

"A name no one knows. Its true name has been lost to history. Not even your ancestor could glean it. For all intents in purposes, it has no name."

"Then I'll take the liberty of giving it one," he sniffed. After a moment of deliberation… "Aten. Aten will do."

"The god of the sun? Isn't that…"

"It fits," Archie's voice said. "Aten was barely a god at all. A single, delusional pharaoh got caught up in a cult and tried to drag his whole nation into it. The real gods didn't much appreciate his heretical ways, and his new religion only lasted a generation before being quietly abandoned. Now that same pharaoh's tomb is the entrance to that accursed place."

"That's still stupid," I managed to say, unable to do much of anything other than resist the urge to groan or make snappy comments.

"I didn't ask for the opinion of someone with brain damage."

Before I could respond with threats to give _him_ brain damage, there was a rush of air and two soft fingers were gently brushing the grit from my eyes. My head was raised from the hard ground and given a soft pillow to rest on.

Moriah's voice came from above me. "Did Darwinius also predict this?"

"He listed it as a possibility," Archibald replied. "One rather more likely than the rest. As usual, his predictions were correct. It's a shame the Clock Tower couldn't have seen his brilliance while he still lived. But then, the sceptical will always stand their ground unless given unobjectionable evidence."

I cracked open my eyes and resisted the urge to close them again. The tent was roomy and shaded, but still very bright compared to the two days we'd spent below ground. When the lancing pain faded somewhat and I could make out Archie as something other than an indistinct blob of disgusting, I spoke again.

"How the hell did you survive?"

Archie glanced at me, looking exactly the same as he had when we'd been separated. Perhaps he leaned on that cane of his more than usual, or perhaps it was merely wishful thinking. "Unlike someone who struggles against a glorified ghoul with a gimmick," he said, pointing the same cane at my face. "A true magus is prepared for anything. You'll be happy to note that, unlike you, I've made tangible progress during our separation."

Moriah's hand covered my mouth before I could belch out a more successful string of expletives. When I turned my gaze up, I saw her looking down on me from above, barely hiding worry. "You are injured," she said, more gently than I was used to. "Straining yourself won't solve anything." She was healed, the raw red lines on her face the only sign of her once perilous condition. In fact, from the angle…

I tried to rise, only for my chest to explode from the inside out. Firm hands pushed me back down, and my head settled on something that most definitely wasn't a pillow, but did a damn fine job as a substitute. "_Rest_," she insisted. "You will need your strength."

"The hell is this?" There were stark white bandages beneath my shirt, wrapped up tightly enough to just barely be uncomfortable.

"Ah, yes, your condition," Archibald harrumphed, looking very pleased with himself. "Luckily for you, I happen to dabble in the medical profession. If I hadn't arrived when I did, you likely would've died from an infection during the night. As it is, those holes won't properly close up until you have the prana to force it. I've cleaned the wounds and removed the foreign matter for later study." He held up a metal tray with various blood encrusted instruments and a plate full of little bloody black chunks of flesh. I wasn't impressed, and judging by how my 'pillow' shuddered at the sight, neither was our Guide. Archie frowned and set the tray back down. "As difficult as it might be for you," he said. "You should follow the girl's instructions and avoid strain. Really, you two managed to almost die to something this harmless…"

"How the bloody hell do you know what happened?" I shot back, and then winced.

"He read-"

"I read your journal," he said smugly. "And I must say, it's a good thing you're not a writer, because prose that abysmal would never sell. And as for that German buffoon… well, I suppose I shouldn't have expected a modicum of intelligence from you, but I'm sorely disappointed in our Guide's performance. Did Atlas teach you how to consort with the enemy, or is that simply thanks to your upbringing?"

"Shut the hell-"

"Archibald." Our Guide's voice was hard and cold. Her hands on my shoulders trembled with either anxiety or rage. "A Lord of your stature has better things to do than insult those below him. If you are going to be critical, please keep it constructive. You are setting a poor example."

The old man leaned more heavily on his cane, raising a single eyebrow as if spying an interesting oddity. "So you _do_ have some spine," he murmured.

"Not choosing to partake in warfare, even the verbal sort, doesn't make someone deficient at it," Moriah said. "It merely means they have more important things on their mind. Do you, Magus? If you have something to say about my decision, please elaborate on it. Otherwise, I ask that you save the pointless barbs for the Clock Tower."

There was a pregnant pause. "Uh, what she said." Haven't heard a tongue lashing like that since Mother caught me stealing from the cookie jar.

Archie looked between us, taken aback for a wonderful moment, before shaking his head and turning around, pushing open one of the flaps of the tent. "Send me the Scribe when he's recovered enough to write," he said in the midst of limping out. "It's time he earned his pay."

A few silent seconds later… "What's eating him?"

"I don't know," the alchemist murmured. "But our Magus is being more confrontational than usual. His behavioural patterns are deviating from the established norm by a significant amount."

"So he _was_ acting like a kid throwing a tantrum. And here I thought it was just me."

I could hear the frown in her voice. "You aren't completely blameless. If you would just keep it professional, this wouldn't happen so often."

"Professionalism is for when you don't have strong feelings about someone, or when you're too scared to piss them off," I said. "Neither one applies here. Trust me, it's overrated."

"In this case, I doubt that. Now hold still. I was not lying about possible brain damage." Her hands went from my shoulders to my head, and she planted each finger with exact precision. "This is a simple diagnostic technique. Close your eyes and be at ease."

I complied, for lack of any better options, and allowed my body to relax. There was a curious tickling in my head, and I had to consciously fight the urge to activate my circuits in reflex to fight off the foreign entity invading my body. After what might have been a minute or an hour, Moriah's voice called me back into reality.

"You… the prognosis is not good." She sounded shaken. She probably was. "I had predicted only a slight chance of actual injury, but…"

"How recent?" I opened my eyes and slowly sat up with help from the small hand on my back. That same hand rested on the back of my neck as I spent a moment fighting off a bout of sudden dizziness. "If it isn't from this week, then forget about it."

"What?"

"Old problem," I said, brushing her hand off my shoulder. "I got it fixed a few years back. So am I good to go, Doc?"

'Doc' bit her lip and clenched her fists, looking for all the world like someone on the verge of pouting. Then, abruptly, her posture changed and she relaxed. "I'm not giving you a clean bill of health," she said, almost teasingly. "As your physician, I am entitled to pry."

"That's fine, if you don't mind me doing the same." I turned and started working out some of the cricks in my neck. "Maybe you'll explain what's up with you and the German? Whatever happened to him, anyway?"

"We are merely professional acquaintances," she said stubbornly. "He visited the institute a handful of times in the past, and I was assigned to be his guide each time. Knowing someone's face and name doesn't make you friends. He's likely flying back to his country this instant. Now tell me how much you remember."

The answer was: Not a lot. Most of everything after that thing showing up was a blur. I faintly recalled getting my ass kicked by _something_, and then running away from that same something, but any details were about as visible as the fine lines on a painting that had been drenched with water. I ended up getting the story from Moriah, who was visibly depressed after telling it.

It isn't surprising.

I've heard people speak of the Curse of Atlas, and this must be it. Knowing that the future holds only disaster is something that can't be easy to live with. There's strength in ignorance, strength that many people depend on just to get through their daily lives. Knowledge is something humanity as a whole never stops seeking, but no one, not even the proudest magus, will deny that too much of it can poison you. For an alchemist with a clear window to what awaits the human race, building up a resistance to that venom is something that should happen sooner rather than later. Moriah's prediction isn't too pretty, and tough talk won't make it any less real or easier to deal with. For me the future is a formless idea that can be molded at a moment's notice, but for her it must be a looming deadline, more solid than the present.

After dragging me up a flight of stairs that opened into the Valley, Alfons had dumped me onto a sand dune, said his goodbyes to Moriah, and lumbered off into the morning, the terms of his contract complete. She says she heard the rumble of an engine a few minutes after he left, meaning by this time he's probably back behind enemy lines or rotting in a ditch with his head blown off by artillery. Personally, I hope it's the former. I only knew the guy for a couple of hours, but he wasn't a bad kid. Certainly too young to get caught up in a mess like this one.

Moriah ended up running into Archibald on her way back to the car to get medical supplies. According to her he was lounging on a chair and drinking tea facing the rising sun, while looking even worse than me, so much so that she'd initially thought the bastard to be dead. They lugged me back to the tent, where Archie cleaned our wounds and healed his own with the boatload of prana those big families always have available to throw around. The rest was history.

I asked Moriah if she could track Alfons' location.

"It would be difficult," she said. "My expertise is more along the lines of scrying what has yet to come, not what is happening now. Perhaps if I had something of his, something he'd keep on his person for a few days at a time, I could get a result."

I tossed her the firing pin of his gun. "Knock yourself out."

She frowned as she recognized the stolen item, but eventually her lips rose as she smiled impishly. It was the glitter of shared knowledge, of a crime committed in secret. It was unexpected, coming from her. "There's a cost for my services, you know," she said. "Since you haven't gotten your paycheck yet, a simple 'yes' will do, at a time of my choosing."

"Stingy," I said, but I still agreed. There was no way I'd say no to that smile and the possibility hidden behind it. Besides, it might be nothing, but I've got the feeling that the kid's connected to all of this. There's no way he'll abandon his target so easily. Not if he's the magus he says he is.

Eventually I convinced Moriah to let me go, but I hesitated at the door, nagged by the feeling that I'd forgotten something important. Unlike all the other times, this one came back to me.

"Back there, in the divination room." I looked back at the alchemist. Her face was unreadable. She probably already knew what I was going to say, but I said it anyway. "What did it say to you?"

When she replied, her voice was soft and cold. "What makes you think it said anything?"

"People don't… coerce others for no reason. It had to have had a purpose."

Her scars were shining in the weak light. Moriah drew her short cloak around her shoulders to ward off my gaze. "It recognized me," she admitted after a moment. "No, it recognized my bloodline. It asked me if… if…"

"Look, if it's not relevant to the mission and you don't want to share, no one's forcing you."

She nodded weakly, but apparently those words were just dying to come out. "It asked me if we were still failing, thousands of years later. If we'd managed to sink any lower than dirt."

There was nothing I could say. Against my better judgement I left her in the tent, looking at the firing pin in her hands as if it was some kind of precious memento. I didn't miss the slight shaking of her shoulders and the multitude of new scars across her back. As much as she tried to hide it, it was obvious that Aten had done a number on her.

Almost made me want to go back down there and give the bastard a piece of my mind. Almost. But our relationship wasn't like that. We couldn't be friends… or anything else. I couldn't lose my cool and do something stupid, like I had yesterday.

I couldn't, but I wished I could.

As I tottered out into the sunny, sandy, sweltering sun, I spotted a familiar vista. Perhaps there were more barely concealed footprints in the sand, perhaps a few signs of battle had been less than expertly hidden, and perhaps a bone or too poked out of a dune here or there, but the Valley of Kings was a comforting, now familiar sight.

Less comforting was the sight of an old man relaxing on a folding chair with a small wooden table beside him, holding a rather banged up tea kettle that still steamed lightly. There were two metal cups near it, one half-full and the other completely empty. The rest of the space was taken up by a curious crystal contraption that bore a striking similarity to a gramophone and, judging by the soft sound of string instruments emanating from it, was a magical equivalent of one. It figures that he'd spend time packing useless garbage rather than something that could save our skins.

"Sit," Archibald said, motioning to the other chair already set up on the other side of the table. "Can I assume you've recovered enough to write?"

I took a seat and reached into my jacket for my journal, but found it missing. Archie snapped it closed and handed it to me. "I've outlined your grammatical errors," he said. "You've been indulging in too much genre fiction. I recommend you expand your library."

"Some of us can't afford anything more expensive than pulp."

"Well you certainly won't have that problem by the end of the week," he replied, his previous irritability seemingly vanished. There was silence for a few minutes, broken only by pages flipping as I skimmed over his intrusive corrections. "Scribe," Archibald suddenly said. "How many times have your services been requested?"

"I don't believe I have to answer that," I said.

"You don't."

"…about two dozen, if memory serves." I wasn't sure what he was getting at, but I was curious to know. Perhaps I shouldn't have been. "I can't name names, of course. It's all confidential."

He nodded, grabbed his cup of pale tea, and took a sip. After looking at the dregs for a moment as if they could tell him the future, Archibald spoke again. "Understandable. Fortunately, I took the liberty of conducting my own investigation. It wasn't at all necessary, but it did confirm a few of my suspicions."

My blood froze. I resisted the urge to gulp audibly and grabbed the empty cup. Archie showed no protest as I poured myself some tea that smelled of vanilla.

"Your previous trip was quite an eventful one. What exactly happened in India was a point of contention for a few weeks afterwards in many circles. The Record you took wasn't publicly available to anyone by the terms of the contract, so quite a few people had questions as to how a first-generation Scribe survived where a Lord of the Tower didn't." He took another sip. "Especially when that Lord was Elmeth Augustus Archibald, the most promising Head of the family in generations."

I almost spat out what was in my mouth. Instead of going out it merely went down the wrong hole, and I was left coughing.

"Be at ease," Lysander Octavius Archibald said, a hint of a laugh playing around his voice. "I only needed a day to conclude you couldn't possibly have betrayed my brother. You're too weak and too soft; someone as talented as him would never allow himself to be slain by an inferior opponent." There it was again. That classic dismissal of unimportant things. Even as an only child, I don't think I'd ever be able to brush aside something like that the way he did. This isn't a magus thing; Archibald's just that cold-hearted. "All that remains is to see if his death was the fault of your incompetence rather than deliberate hostility, or if you truly possess a quality he did not," he concluded. "For your sake, it had better be the latter."

"So you're appointing yourself judge, jury…"

"And executioner, if it comes down to that." I snuck a sideways glance at Archibald. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either. Rather, he had that same focused look that I'd seen as he looked over my office, our jeep, and the Valley. "Tell me," he continued. "What would you say killed him? There's no need to mince words. If I catch a deception, I might just deliver my verdict right now."

Miss Daisy's comforting weight wasn't at my side, and I'd left my pack in the tent with Moriah. All of the aches and pains in my body were suddenly screaming to make themselves known, telling me I stood no chance in a fight. I couldn't lie or try to soften the blow in hopes of being granted mercy. My only remaining weapons were the truth and my sharp wit, and the latter was more likely to get me killed than help.

"Greed," I said, truthfully. "Greed and arrogance. The same thing that's killed hundreds of so called adventurers, and will be the end of hundreds more."

Archibald nodded. "I thought as much. The fires of greed will burn the weak and the proud. He always did think himself invincible. Now he's died a petty, common death." And just like that, it was over. He'd spared less care for his own flesh and blood than another man would for a daily shave. "Will that same flaw be the end of this party?"

"I don't know."

He snorted, dismissing my answer like he dismissed everything that didn't match his expectations. "What does your experience tell you? Surely those two dozen expeditions weren't all for nothing?"

My fists clenched of their own accord. "It's telling me that we've got bigger things to worry about than petty arguments and personality flaws. It's telling me we're in way over our heads and that we need to get in contact with someone who knows what they're doing."

He harrumphed. "It's no wonder you haven't gone anywhere. A real magus would never let such trifling fears stop him. Common sense and caution have no place in our world."

"This thing is bigger than your grudge. You haven't seen what's down there. You have no idea-"

"Oh, but I do," he said. "Surely you don't think I came here blind and confused? Alexander's thesis has guided me admirably so far, and I trust it will continue to do so. The Guide's description of Aten fits with my ancestor's theories perfectly, as does yours."

I ground my teeth together. "Then why the hell didn't you say anything about it earlier?"

"You never asked. Now are we done with the questions, or do you have more needling to do? I'd like to finish this as quickly as possible."

I flipped open the journal to a blank page and did my best not to have an aneurysm. "Just get on with it."

Archie's story did turn out to be colourful indeed. I thought our experience downstairs was bad, but this was definitely in the running. Under the sweltering sun, while munching on tea and biscuits, I wrote down Archibald's tale. It's recorded in its entirety on the official transcript, but since this isn't the place for it, I'll only summarize the events.

The cave-in had been manufactured. In all likelihood it was a final safety measure built into the temple in case its prisoner woke. The collapse dumped us into the working area along with 'Aten', but Archibald managed to use his magecraft to cling to the walls around the edge and avoid a deadly fall. After the dust had settled and the room's illusions had fallen apart, three more exits revealed themselves, along with the passage we'd taken to enter. Sparing no thought for his fallen comrades, Archie picked the one across from the entrance and went through, while sending his remaining familiars to explore the other two. One of them lead to a dead end, and the other is something I'll save for later.

The hall it led to was initially dissimilar to the maze of passageways we'd encountered upon entering. It was long, tall, and expensively decorated; it had no forks at all. At the end, after a few minutes of uneventful walking, Archibald came to a set of double doors fit for a giant.

They took up the entire height and width of the hallway. Massive slabs of stone covered in gold leaf and enough precious gems to make a sultan jealous towered over the lone human who had dared to approach them. On the left door, a depiction of a diety was carved into the stone in that strange art style ancient Egyptians used, yet matching none of the gods of their pantheon. There were no jackal-headed fellows here; the sculpted beard and block of hair could only have belonged to a human. The depiction was frozen in a rigid pose, thrusting one hand forward into the divide between doors and holding aloft one half of a tire-sized circular diamond that shone like the sun in the weak light.

The right was a contrasting picture. Archibald recognized the craftsmanship as superb, yet the image unsettled him in a way he couldn't quite place. Unlike the previous carving, this one looked to have been done by an amateur. There was no consistency. One arm was twice as long as the other, and where its face should have been was a crude depiction of a stone mask that was all angles and sharp points, several of which looked to be digging into the thing's head. A ritual covering or constant torture? It didn't matter; the creature's position was clear. A misshapen, slightly too long hand extended to meet the deity's, bearing a semicircular ruby that looked like it could burst into a pool of blood any second.

Despite his eagerness to tell his tale, Archie refused to tell me what he did to get the door open. It was obviously locked by more than physical means, yet I know not what they were. Perhaps there was a pass phrase to get through, like the one that granted us entry into the tomb itself. Maybe a certain spell or artifact was the key. Maybe Archie made the whole thing up.

Regardless, what lay on the other side was enough to forgive that bit of stinginess.

The whole thing was a cylinder, or perhaps a steep cone. As wide as the coffin room and just as tall, the chamber could've been an exact replica if not for the finer differences, chief among them being the winding staircase circled around the room's perimeter, climbing and climbing until it disappeared into darkness too distant for a mage light to illuminate. It was wide enough to easily accommodate our compact jeep, but the crumbly stone steps were certainly not sturdy enough to bear its weight.

More interesting than the stairs was what lay beneath them. The ground was glass, or something so clear it might as well have been that. The light didn't bounce off, no matter what the angle. The first step Archibald took was onto thin air, and it supported him easily. Perhaps three or four feet below the surface were a series of lines. Straight lines, curved lines, lines that doubled back on themselves and lines that joined with others to form symbols that had to mean something to someone. Lines formed from grains of silver and gold and platinum sand, snaking through each other and across the room to join with others, creating a ritual circle that could easily encompass a small house. In the center, illuminated by a finger-thick ray of light from the heavens, was a gemstone set into the middle of the circle, one that changed colours from second to second, so that not even the magus could tell its true form.

Archibald doesn't have a photographic memory, but he did stop to do a rough sketch of the design, one that he's refusing to let me copy down, the bastard. The walls of the room initially appeared to be more of the same gold leaf layered on rock, but when Archibald approached the steps he noticed that the wall immediately adjacent to the staircase was also made of the same invisible material as the floor. Deeper within, standing at about two meters tall, was another sealed coffin.

And next to it, another.

And another, and another, and more and more that continued as a row to rise with the staircase, terminating somewhere above, in the blackness. There were easily hundreds of the things, each one carved in the same way, from some kind of nondescript black wood, bearing no decoration but a simple collection of unintelligible hieroglyphs on the lid, each design unique to one coffin. It didn't take a genius to realize what lay within.

"So they didn't abandon this place after all," Archibald said to himself, an unfortunate habit many stuck up magi tend to develop. "He must be here, then. Or did he fail to get this far in the first place?" He raised his hand and tried to touch the coffin, only to be rebuffed by its unseen protection.

"You need not worry about that," someone growled from the direction of the doorway. "You should instead wonder how painful your death will be, you fool."

Archibald let out a short, barking laugh, and turned to the newcomer. "I was expecting you, but not such aggression. What's wrong? Was letting that rat slip out of your fingers earlier such an embarrassing experience?"

A torso-sized chunk of rock sailed like a javelin through the air, and it was only a timely dodge that spared Archibald an unwelcome collision. It crashed into the wall with enough force to produce a spider web of cracks on the surface of the pure glass, pestering the magus with shards that sliced through clothes and skin and the sound of a thousand windows shattering.

"You idiot," the Sister growled, marching forward as if she was approaching her own execution. Her shoulders were bunched up, her eyes dull, and the serene smile that had been the center-point of her features was now a determined grimace. "You have no idea what you've done!" Behind her, seven men raised weapons ranging from pilfered MP-40s to Lee Enfields from the Great War. I won't deny being pleased to hear Sallah wasn't among them.

Archibald deftly sidestepped the next makeshift projectile as if it was a splash of water that would've stained the expensive suit he wasn't wearing. "I think you'll find that I'm perfectly aware of the consequences of my actions," he countered as he brushed some dust from his shoulder with his spare hand; the other tapped a staccato rhythm on the floor with the cane. "No magus would venture into the place without such knowledge."

"Then why!? Why did you wake it, knowing what you know?" Her retinue fanned out behind the Sister, each of their guns trained on Archibald. Her robes rippled from an unnatural wind, and her right hand was wrapped around a wooden cross and squeezing hard enough to turn knuckles white and fingers red. "Has pride poisoned your mind? Did you think you could control it, that you could tame something from the Lost Age!?"

"Didn't you?"

She faltered, as did the unnatural force she'd been in the midst of summoning. In that moment, the two pieces of debris she'd thrown leapt into the air of their own accord, blocking a sudden barrage of bullets from a trigger-happy foe. Archibald raised his cane and gave the smaller one a light tap; it went sailing back to where it had come from faster than it'd arrived, blowing away dust as it crossed the room in an instant.

"The trouble with Natural Abilities," Archibald told me as he paused in his story-telling to start up another rant, "Is that despite being wonderfully integrated into a person's usual array of functions, their same convenience is also an inconvenience. Perhaps what this woman has is truly her faith being rewarded, or maybe her latent Extra-Sensory Perception awakened at an opportune moment. It matters not, because like all humans bound by mortal shells, her effectiveness correlates directly with her state of mind. Unlike someone who practices self-hypnosis to achieve a perfect mindset to use magecraft, she utilizes that thirteenth person like an extension of her own body. If her usual rhythm is disrupted and foreign thoughts introduced, so too will her power be polluted by doubt."

"You don't need to explain everything," I shot back between mouthfuls of dry biscuits. "Just get on with it."

He wrinkled his nose and obliged.

In the swirling storm of sand, the blurry outline of a human figure separate from the rest became visible, standing tall behind the floundering Sister. It walked forward, through the one controlling it, and knocked the returning rock out of the air with a casual backhand, sending it into the wall again. This time it merely bounced off with a dull thud and the sound of rock falling apart. A thin stream of blood flowed from the torn knuckles of the Sister's hand, colouring the cross red.

The other rock sailed right past the Sister and her protector, smashing two unfortunate gunmen against the wall. Their muted screams were cut off by simultaneous wet splats and cries of alarm from the others.

"Get back," she ordered, her voice rough with anger. "You'll be more of a hindrance than a help here." One of the men made to protest, only for the dust to flicker and the invisible being to grab the man and hurl him out of the room like a mutt begging for food at the dinner table one too many times. The rest followed without a word. I can sympathize, really. I'd rather deal with an angry Archibald than an angry lady, particularly one so zealous.

Dust hung in the air as Archibald stepped down from the staircase and began to orbit the middle of the room with even, measured steps, his cane tapping in time with one foot and a bored frown on his face. The Sister started walking as well, staying opposite Archibald, but not before her guardian pulled the two giant doors closed with a shuddering groan, employing nothing but brute force to do so. In the choking air, its position and shape could only be inferred.

The stalemate lasted five minutes and several full rotations before it was broken abruptly and without warning. It was not Archibald, nor was it the Sister. I almost wish it had been. No, it was only a sleepy child that could break up a parental spat.

The crack from the stone striking glass extended, widening noticeably. Two pairs of eyes flicked towards it, and the pacing stopped with both enemies equidistant from the beginning of the staircase. A heartbeat later, the edge of the crack grew, following the curving pane of glass up and up and up until the whole thing resembled a colorless mosaic. A dull thud shot across the room, and then another.

The Sister's guardian appeared, standing behind her with its thick arms folded. Archibald's tapping petered out, overpowered by the new noise.

The third sound was the cracking of splintering wood, and both parties saw the black lid of the first coffin break apart, emaciated fingers spearing through and wiggling like maggots to widen the hole.

Neither person dared speak as more thudding came from the adjacent coffin, or the one after that. Neither said a thing as the cover fell and the glass shattered and the ray of light in the center of the room faded away. They merely prepared for the worst and met it head on.

"And, well, that's about it," Archibald said as he took the still warm pot and poured himself another cup of tea. He took a sip and sighed, relaxing in the sweltering sun.

"That's it? Nothing else?" Not gonna deny it: he'd snagged me. Archibald told his story with the practiced ease of a grandfather who had lulled countless children to sleep, and cut it off with the ruthless efficiency of a scientist trimming the fat from a subject's bones.

"Yes," he repeated. "That's all. I fought my way out and waited here for you two. Did you get everything, or should I repeat myself?" He sneered, daring me to choose the latter in hopes of getting more scraps of information.

"Oh, it's all recorded," I said, snapping the journal shut and throwing it at him as if it was a rotten slice of meat. "Everything except for the giant fucking hole near the end! Did that mummy show up and fry your brain or are you just being needlessly obtuse for the hell of it?"

"Not at all," Archibald said between sips. "I've prepared countermeasures for that sort of situation. No, I merely have no wish to reveal the secrets of my magecraft to you or the world. It's bad enough that there's a deluded woman running around with such knowledge. If it were to become public, I would lose too much ground."

"She made it out?"

"I presume so," he took a biscuit and eyed it as if it were a specimen rather than food. "A part of me hopes not, but the idea of her standing against me and then losing to something else is most repulsive. Let us assume she and her remaining lackeys yet live."

"What about those coffins? What's the deal with them? Are you telling me Aten has buddies?" I had too many questions and a suspicion that getting straight answers out of Archibald would be more difficult than earning his respect.

"I have theories, but little in the way of proof," he replied, staring into the fuzzy horizon with that self-satisfied smirk on his face. "And also something for our Guide to take a look at. Be a good dog and fetch her, would you?"

"You-!"

"Actually, never mind. I'll do it." He stood and left me sitting in the crappy folding chair, thoroughly unsatisfied and still hungry. A minute and several biscuits later, Archibald returned with a sullen alchemist in tow.

"What… what do you need?" Moriah awkwardly stepped around me and set up a third chair on my free side. She sank into it, wincing slightly as the visible scar tissue covering her body was stretched, and turned her attention to our employer.

Archibald tossed her something black. "Tell me what this means," he ordered, but she didn't hear him. Her attention was already focused on the plank of wood in her hands.

"This is a name," she murmured, fingers tracing tiny hieroglyphs carved into the ebony. "And a title. If I am reading it correctly she was a magus of a long dead dynasty."

Archibald gave her two more. One was stained with blood, but the results were the same. Different names, different titles, different families, all magi. Each one came from a similar time period. It didn't take a genius to realize what that meant. The same people who had built the tomb, the same people who worked and lived in the halls we'd wandered past, the same magi that had spent their lives making sure Aten wouldn't wake up… they lived in that place, died in that place, and were entombed in that place as well. But no more. Now they were our enemies.

"Aten's presence is infectious," Archibald said. The sun had reached the highest place in the sky and was just beginning to set. "He has co-opted his captors into his servants. If you encounter him once more, he will be as different from that shell you saw as the sun from the moon. Guide? What do you know? What shall we do? You possess the answers we seek. Share them."

She hesitated again before speaking. "Technically, the most optimal route involves us returning to the village and contacting the local Atlas branch. They possess weapons we do not, and people trained to handle this kind of situation."

"Not an option," he snapped. "Continue."

She nodded and furrowed her eyebrows, and then said the opposite of what I was expecting. "Of course," Moriah said. "The problem with that plan is that if we pursue it, we will not be able to take credit for the accomplishment, which is unacceptable."

It took a moment to get my brain working again. "The hell are you talking about?" I said, shooting a querying glance her way. "Are you seriously agreeing with him?"

Our Guide nodded, refusing to meet my eyes. "Yes. I was hired to lead Lord Archibald to greatness by triumphing in this place, not to back off and let someone else snatch it away." There was fire in her voice. She couldn't have simply been coerced.

"You'd bet the fate of the world on your paycheck!?" Had I been wrong about her? I'd thought Moriah was the most logical one out of us three, but had I been sorely mistaken?

"I have a goal," Moriah said, her words as solid as stone. "If I leave now, I'll be throwing it away, and that's unacceptable. Isn't that right, Lord Archibald?"

The man smirked. "Yes, of course. I'm glad to see my estimation of you was correct. Now tell me how we'll snatch victory from the jaws of defeat."

"You're insane," I said. "You're both crazy!" I stood, my chest burning and my wounds forgotten. My biggest prospective ally had betrayed me.

They ignored me.

"I know what will happen in Giza," the Guide continued, only looking at Archibald. "You were correct as usual, Lord. Aten is still without his power. It has been separated and placed far away, where even the mundane are unconsciously drawn to it, unable to grasp its form. Without it, he cannot properly feed. Without it, he is still asleep."

It didn't take long to realize what she was talking about. "The Great Pyramid?" Archibald blinked. "But it's empty! A rocky shell explored by more people than it took to build it. How could anything of worth be there?"

"It must be there," she insisted. "If we don't go back into the tomb today it won't be there tomorrow, and neither will a few hundred thousand soldiers and half of Egypt."

"Then it's settled," Archibald said. "We're going back in, unless the Scribe has more protests." He shot me a look. _That_ look. The one no one ever wants to see. The one that forces you to choose between your life and your pride. Moriah finally met my eyes as well. I saw a rigid resolution poorly hiding guilt.

I made my choice.

"That check better have all the zeroes I can ask for," I grumbled.

Archibald grinned. "Oh, it will."


	9. Fifth Entry (Part Two)

It was full of sand.

This isn't really important in the grand scheme of things; I just want to point it out.

The floor of the underground tomb we'd explored earlier was now covered with sand. Sand that gets in shoes and clothes and guns and generally ruins people's days. As if we didn't already have enough on our plates.

Getting back in was trivial. We had the password, and although Akhenaten's grave had seen some more traffic since the last time one of us had frequented it, nothing impeded our entrance.

Archibald shook his head as I double checked Miss Daisy's chambers. "You'll need something tougher than that," he said. "If you insist on using mundane weaponry, get a gun a Dead Apostle wouldn't be able to walk away from."

Bastard. I exchanged the pistol for the double barrelled sawn-off. "What's the situation like?"

"Messy," he replied. "This place may be quiet now, but that's merely because these creatures are intelligent enough to keep themselves hidden. I've sent the remaining familiars ahead, though there's little chance of them catching anything." He paused a moment and looked at the shadowed hall. Even the lustre of the jewels seemed to have dulled in our short absence. "Double the lights," he decided. "They already know we're here, so there's no reason to hide."

"You do it. I don't have the prana to spare."

Archibald obliged, while his alchemist examined the tiny dunes on the floor. "This place has been recently travelled," was the conclusion. "At least a half dozen newcomers, but no departures."

"Food for the fallen," he said. "No doubt they expect little resistance from us." A corona of light shone above and behind him, like the twisted mockery of an angelic halo. "Come. I will lead."

We followed. Archibald's gait was steady, and the procession of lights floating around us illuminated everything perfectly. Yet the light only served to deepen and multiply the shadows, and with each step it seemed less like helpful and more treacherous, as if it was going to lure the monsters in the dark right to us.

We cut straight through the nest of distracting mazes. The destination was the branch directly across from ours. One led to the coffin room, and the other was just another way downstairs. The path we were taking was the only one we hadn't yet explored. Or rather, it was the one we _had_ to.

Seers can be strangely specific about certain things, while for others they're about as vague as the artistic direction of a nose bleed. Their predictions usually have more holes than Swiss cheese, but they tend to fixate on the most ridiculous criteria. The Guide made it explicitly clear that we needed to get to a certain part of the tomb before our sleepy friend, or Giza would be wiped off the map.

Aten had probably realized the same thing, because we ran into the first group of ghouls a minute in.

It was at the first four way intersection. Grey bodies poured out of the side paths at the edge of our vision, dully scraping past each other to get to us. There was no hissing or screaming, no announcement to strike fear into our hearts. One moment we were three, and the next we were surrounded by half-naked men and women, most of who were indistinguishable from each other. Skin had become paper, sloughing off and mingling with faded cloth. None had any real facial features past piercing eyes and dozens of teeth sharper than a knife, with the occasional wispy beard making itself known.

You could almost _taste_ their hunger.

Archibald didn't drop his pace as the Guide and I hesitated. "Keep moving," he said. "This is meant to stall us."

"It's working," I replied, taking a look behind me and confirming that yes, our exit _had_ been cut off by the same shadowy undead.

While the rest were content with keeping their distance and waiting for us to make the first move, one ghoul broke away from the herd and charged Archibald, loping like a predator as it tried unsuccessfully to growl with no vocal chords. Leathery lips pulled back to reveal yellow and black teeth, and it leapt at the magus faster than a cheetah could run. Atrophied muscles that could pull a man apart with no effort stretched and compressed where skin had rotted away completely, and its jaw opened wider than a living being's tendons would allow.

One moment it flew through the air like a bullet, and the next it was lying in pieces against the wall, smashed to bits.

Archibald lowered his cane and tapped it against the ground once. Only once.

"Come," he said. "I will sweep away the dust while we walk. You handle any motes that get through."

The Guide didn't hesitate. The loyal dog followed the guy who paid the bills, forcing me to follow lest a pair of decayed chompers found its way around my flesh. A ghoul sprang towards me from behind as I pushed forward, and Miss Jane blasted it out of the air without a second glance. One down, a thousand to go, and there wasn't enough ammo in a hundred mile radius to handle those numbers.

Archibald's right hand let go of his implement, and words I couldn't catch above the quiet din floated from his lips. A moment later he raised his arm and quickly brought it down in one motion, as if willing the wave of undead to part on its own.

As luck would have it, that's exactly what it did.

At first the opening was unnoticeable, but as it widened, it could no longer be mistaken for a coincidence. An inch. Two. A foot. Some kind of invisible force pushed the blockade apart from the center, sending monsters stumbling back into the same tunnels they'd come from. Some tried to claw at it, but only succeeded in losing limbs, which were reduced to scraps of dry flesh in seconds. A few followed the first's example, struggling towards us even as their bodies were torn apart. Those were stopped in mid-air and then slammed into the walls, bound by strings that restricted their movement long enough for Miss Jane to reduce them to fragments of bone and dust.

As we passed through the now empty intersection, it became clear what Archibald had done. The air in the places the ghouls couldn't pass was thick with sand particles that moved around rapidly, oscillating at speeds I couldn't perceive as anything other than an indistinct haze. Anything attempting to get through was shredded by a thousand tiny rocks, each one a deadly bullet on its own and part of a storm that could strip flesh from bone in moments.

On a hunch I cleared away some of the sand from the floor with my foot. Drawn on top of the smooth stone was a thick red outline that curved ever so gently and continued into the sand.

"Now's not the time to gawk," Archibald snapped, pulling me away from the edge of the hallway. "Despite what you may think, this performance doesn't come cheap."

"Didn't you have to run out of here?" I asked as we left the groaning ghouls behind. "How the hell did you find the time to draw a circle that big with them patrolling the corridors?"

"I plan ahead, like any magus worth his circuits," he said as he brushed a bit of dead man from his shoulder. "You should try it some time. Guide, how are we doing?"

"If we continue like this, we should make it. Whether we arrive before Aten is a different matter." I felt her gaze on me for a moment, and resisted the urge to return it. Not today, lady. Not after that stunt you pulled.

"Punctuality is a simple virtue to achieve," Archibald said confidently. "Now prepare yourselves. There's another group ahead."

The next intersection was easier. Archibald had installed yet another of his magic circles on it, and the swirling sand pushed away any potential threats while leaving us safe passage. The Guide immobilized any stragglers that slipped through, and I blasted them to bits. It was a winning combination, if a rather draining one.

Five almost identical intersections later, despite his initial bravado, Archibald was visibly lagging behind, putting more weight on a cane that should've been for show. We'd jogged the last few minutes, but his pace had slowed down to the point where he couldn't keep it up.

"Finally feeling your age?"

"Hardly," he gasped. "If you disagree, I'd ask you to try keeping such a spell active while exerting yourself."

"We are here," the Guide said, at just the right volume to catch our attention without escalating the situation further. Girl probably planned it that way, just like everything else she does.

Machinations aside, the collapsed room was unmistakably familiar. Sure, most of the floor was gone, but it still stank of German blood and dead guy.

Our destination was on the other side, across the blackness. Archibald went along the edge, defying gravity by crawling along the wall like a spider, his limbs suddenly stickier than tar on a hot day. If I'd had more time I would've tried to sneak a picture, because the sight of a pompous gentleman doing such a ridiculous act is one to treasure.

The Guide, meanwhile, swung several loops of string across to the other side, anchored them to both edges, and danced across like a circus performer. Since I wasn't able to replicate such triumphs of balance, I had to get more creative. The only thing between me and our destination was almost a hundred meters of empty space.

It's funny what you come up with when there's an army of starving ghouls at your feet.

I won't say exactly how I got to the other side, only that it involved a leap of faith and judicious exploitation of physics using a certain botched recoil rune. Needless to say, it wasn't the most controlled crossing.

The landing was worse.

I collided with something warm and soft and considerably smaller than me. We went rolling and said warm, soft cushion quickly hit the ground, bringing our short duet to a sudden conclusion.

When I could finally see, I found myself straddling our unfortunate alchemist, who looked at me as if I was about to explode.

"Please," she pleaded. "Do not vomit on me."

I forced myself to swallow. "Wasn't planning on it."

"There is a seventy three percent chance that in the next fifteen seconds-"

"Nope." I relaxed my neck until my forehead rested on something semi-solid, and did my best to calm my aching head and spinning stomach. Or was it the other way around? All I know is I got past fifteen seconds.

On the sixteenth, I looked up and spotted Archibald.

"Hey," I croaked. "Be a pal."

"Stay away from me."

"Bastard." I clambered off the stunned Guide and dragged myself to the edge of the chasm on hands and knees, where I contemplated the pros and cons of evacuating my stomach there. So absorbed was I with the internal debate that by the time I'd decided in favour of emigration, the civil war in my stomach had calmed and the hand that'd been gently patting my back was helping me up.

The only reason I'm recording this seemingly meaningless event is to make sure it _never happens again_.

"It is a straight shot from here." Moriah backed away before I could shake her off. "There should be few distractions, but we must hurry."

Few distractions. Another classic example of a diviner taking gratuitous liberties with their supposed prediction.

Few distractions would be more ghouls. Few distractions might even mean some of the Church retinue, or less than agreeable competitors. For all I know, few distractions could mean a rather enticing piece of wall graffiti.

Few distractions is most definitely _not_ how I'd describe the situation we were faced with.

The new path went down. Not straight down, mind you, but it was a gradual slope that I would've missed had I not trained myself to notice such things. You'd be surprised when such seemingly useless knowledge can save your life.

There were no side paths, and the wall engravings shifted from decorative to utilitarian in purpose. Strings of simpler hieroglyphs replaced the more elaborate depictions from earlier, and the overall quality dropped as a result. It was a gradual change, but five minutes after we'd started walking, it was difficult to compare the dry tunnel of the present to the one from before. Gone was the sense of being in a living museum. This was more akin to a deserted warehouse or run-down building.

Funnily enough, those places tend to make excellent ambush spots. Yet we didn't see a single soul all the way down.

We smelt it before we saw it, and before we smelt it, we heard it. It was a dull roar, similar to that of a rattling air plane but much more organic. There were no irregularities or manufactured components. It was simply a constant pounding that travelled down the length of the hall, twisting and echoing until only indistinct noise remained.

Before we heard the river, we _felt_ it.

It started as a tingling. The feeling of a tiny insect landing on skin. Yet when I looked, there was nothing there. Then there were a dozen invisible bugs, and before I could catch a single one they'd multiplied to a thousand. Pain wasn't a proper word to describe it, because there was nothing harmful there. It was as dangerous as an inert rock or free floating smoke from a camp fire. That feeling, once it began to sink inside my body rather than stay on the surface, merely promised power.

"A ley line," Archibald mused, answering my unasked question.

"No," the Guide replied, disagreeing without even meaning to. "_The_ ley line."

It was mana. Pure magical energy, so dense that it mingled with the air, so dense you could bottle the stuff, add water, and sell it for a premium on the market. Enough mana to fuel any magus' dream ritual ten times over, and we stood just at the edge.

As we walked, it entered our lungs. Prana has no will of its own, so what I'm describing shouldn't be possible, but merely breathing it made me feel better, more energetic. Forget coffee, this stuff was the real deal.

The Guide continued the explanation, unbidden. Her words were of pure joy, those of an explorer who had glimpsed their goal and found it even greater than anything they had dreamed of. No, better than that. She was a child reciting a favourite bed time story while seeing it come to life around her. "When one speaks of the River of Life, this is what they are thinking of. Of the great rivers, it is the greatest. It surpasses the Tigris, the Orentus, and the Indus, and its splendour puts all of Asia's streams to shame!"

Our orbs of light were no longer necessary. A soft green glow filled the air of its own accord, without a concrete source. With every step we took, it strengthened. Archibald let his spells wink out one by one. For once, he too was silenced.

"It is more than a simple body of water," Moriah said, her steady tone giving way to clear admiration, her measured gaze falling apart like damp paper. "To magi, alchemists, and ordinary citizens alike, it is one of the greatest miracles in the world. The river responsible for creating an entire civilization, symbolizing life so strongly that it now embodies that very same concept…"

I could feel it under my feet now. The thrum of rushing water, of something that almost resembled the world's pulse. The musty air was gone. Every breath I took was cleaner and fresher than the last.

"Behold," she whispered reverently, as we rounded one last corner and came face to face with the source.

"The _Nile_."

As if to answer her expectations, the rushing rapids _roared_. Blue-green water frothed and escaped its prison, mingling with the air to produce fractured light that was a feast for the eyes. The river could've fit the width of the hall we'd been travelling ten times over with room to spare, yet it was as energetic as a child after a cookie binge.

What's more, there wasn't just water there. Each droplet carried an unearthly glow. Or rather, it was more earthly than anything I'd ever seen before. Perfectly natural, something that knew not the taint of human meddling.

"_Hydōr zōēs_... the Water of Life. Impossible," Archibald said weakly. For the first time, I saw him at a loss for words. He stared at the river like a starving man might look at a full course meal. "Ley lines aren't corporeal. This shouldn't exist!"

"Yet it does," the alchemist replied, not taking her eyes off the spectacle. "It is possibly the only one of its kind in the whole world. The beliefs of the people it nourished have a power of its own. It can be called a God unto itself, for granting us all life. What you see is the reflection of the river on the surface. It is a manifestation of the idea of the Nile, the idea of a stream that nurtures all. That concept is stronger than the laws of this world."

We stood at an underground port. Only a single fraction of the underground river was visible to us, yet it could almost be called a lake in its own right. No lights graced the massive chamber, for none were needed. The blue-green glow that suffused everything was more than sufficient. Small stone buildings stood at the edge of the man-made cave, while the remains of supplies dotted the smooth floor.

"…why." I finally found my voice. "Why are we here?"

My words seemed to dull some of the splendour. We sank back into reality, despite the enticing display. Moriah's smile was blunted at the edges, and the childish wonder in Archibald's eyes faded away completely as he turned to face the Guide.

She merely pointed.

It was a ship. At about forty meters by ten, it was nothing compared to today's leviathans, but nonetheless impressive in its own right. Carved from wood and painstakingly put together, one could see the work that went into building the thing just from a casual glance. It floated peacefully in a man-made bay off to the side of the main river, as if waiting to be released.

Suddenly, Moriah's insistence on speed made sense.

Three hours, the letter had originally said. Yet for some reason that number had been lengthened. Was it because we had done things in a different order?

"There is a seal," Moriah said. "A divine protection that will stop any strangers from approaching the solar barge. Yet any fool with skill could have arrived and dispelled it, allowing Aten direct access to a method of transportation that can take one straight to Giza without interruption. He wouldn't be able to survive prolonged immersion, so this is the only way to cross."

"Are we too late?" Archibald asked. "This one is still secured, but there's enough space for a second ship, and indications that one was here until recently."

Moriah shook her head. "I… don't know who did this," she admitted. "But it cannot have been Aten. The seal is still here, unbroken. A living being might have found a way to bypass it, and with some preparation Aten might eventually break it, but it will still annihilate a Dead Apostle without fail. We were not the first to arrive, but there is still time."

"Then what are we waiting for?" I fished a grenade from a pocket. "Let's trash the thing and be done with it."

"Impossible," she said immediately. "The ship is reinforced. None of us would be able to put a scratch on it."

"Then we cut it loose and let it drift away."

"Also not an option." There was a hint of nervous tension in her voice. After spending a bit of time working alongside our alchemist, I became better able to read her. This was how she acted when caught between a rock and a hard place: Defaulting to following her visions and objectives. "We will need that ship."

"Why?"

"To escape _me_, I _presume_."

I hadn't noticed the new presence until it addressed us. Or perhaps I had, and the memory simply hadn't reached my Record in time. As soon as it spoke, though, I felt it.

No, I felt _them_.

Turning, we saw the mass of undead clearly. You could've taken every ghoul we'd bypassed previously and they would still be outnumbered. There were easily more than two hundred ravenous beasts crowding the hall like a pack of rotting sardines, with the king fish at the head of the pack.

And it was most certainly a King. The appearance had changed very little. The beast from earlier was still a mass of bandages in a human shape. Its stone face was adorned with thousands of fractures, but the crumbling rock somehow managed to stay in one piece all the same. The linen had been burnt black and torn to pieces, but it clung to the body of the mummy like clothing.

What had changed was the behaviour. No longer did we face a bloodthirsty madman; the straight shoulders, proud bearing, and steady red gaze made all the difference in the world. I'd seen that look dozens of times from our very own Magus, yet this one put those stern glares to shame. Just looking at it was enough to dampen any earlier elation.

Hearing it speak turned it into horror.

"Nothing to _say_?" The voice was rasping, gravelly, and terrifying. "You haven't yet forgotten how to _speak_, I _hope_. These husks make for excellent _tools_, but poor conver_sation_." Its accent was a mystery. I caught slurring that I'd last heard in my home town, Moriah's overly formal rigidity, with Archibald's commanding syllables, magnified a dozen times over.

"You don't deserve my attention," Archibald growled, forcing himself on the aggressive like a cornered dog. "A parasite like you exists only to be flicked away." His hand tightened on his cane, knuckles turned white as the monster's attention turned to him. He looked less like a Lord and more like an old man.

"And you only exist to feed _me_," Aten replied easily, taking measured steps forward. "But I've deigned to grant you the privilege of con_versing_ with your superior all the _same_. Some gratitude is in _order_."

"You're no god." The words escaped my lips before I could hold them back.

The mummy glanced at me again, and I caught a flash of unrestrained hatred before it addressed me. "Not _yet_," it admitted. "But soon enough, I _will_ _be_. Aten, you named _me_? You have no idea what that word _means_."

"Guide," Archibald said. "Break the seal."

She didn't move. Moriah stood behind me, so when her hand grabbed mine I found it trembling. She held it tightly enough that in any other situation I would've asked her to let go. "If we die here," she whispered into my ear. "He might be delayed."

"_Yes_," Aten agreed, leering at the girl. "Follow the example of your ancestors and prepare my solar _barge_. There is somewhere I need to _be_. If you perform well I might even let you _serve_, as your predecessors once _did_. The offer is still _open_."

I squeezed back. "Go. We'll buy you time."

Her hand lingered on mine for a moment longer than necessary, and then she took off. We couldn't avert our eyes from the enemy, but I heard quick footsteps dashing towards the boat.

"She says you can go to hell," I said pleasantly. "And we'll be kind enough to see you on your way."

Aten's previously jovial tone hardened. "As you _wish_."

The ghouls charged us as one, a wave of death to contrast the river of life at our back. In moments, Aten was lost among the crowd, out of sight and out of mind.

Archibald withdrew something from his pocket and cast it forward. The sand flew a few feet and then hung in the air as if time had been frozen, creating a crescent counterfort to hold back the tide.

The first ghoul that charged through came out as a pile of shavings. Taking its lesson to heart, the rest flowed around and above, having been only temporarily impeded.

By that time I'd pulled something out of the object in my hand and lobbed it over the wall, into the mass of monsters. As it hung in the air, I realized I had no idea what it was or why I'd done what I did. Not that it mattered. My body had already resolved its action before the information vanished.

Miss Daisy came up, and a bullet tore through the grenade in mid-air, blasting away the ghouls trying to climb over Archibald's barricade in an explosion twice as powerful as what it should've been able to produce on its own.

Then the revolver retired, and out came a new addition to the force. It was Miss Mary's first trip out of the UK, but I'd practiced enough that she felt natural in my hands. What felt even better was dispensing a thousand rounds of death per minute, Chicago Style. I didn't even have to aim particularly well; the wall of ghouls fifty meters away stumbled and fell back after half a dozen seconds of sustained fire. With a modified magazine and enough practice to guarantee there'd be no fumbled reloads, I wouldn't be running out of ammo any time soon.

Sparing a glance for Archibald proved unnecessary. He handled his part with ease. Holding his cane like a pistol, he tapped it on the ground, gathering up a compressed ball of earth at the tip, pointed it at a ghoul's head, and vacated its skull with a makeshift projectile that would put Miss Velvet to shame. Then he lazily repeated the process, blowing apart one every second, positioning each shot like a decorative doily.

It still wasn't enough. Quicker than I'd expected, the gap between living and dead had closed to ten meters. We'd taken out a good quarter of our foes, and the rest would run over us like a flood. We were trapped between the rivers of life and death, and both would just as eagerly drown us.

Archibald must've realized the same thing, because he abruptly switched tactics. The useless wall of sand dropped, and as he muttered an aria under his breath I swept across the tide, going full auto and spending every last bullet to stem it as much as possible. Just as my gun clicked empty, Archibald shouted some word I didn't catch, throwing his hand forward as if commanding an army.

Which, to be fair, wasn't that far off.

They rose from the center of the mass: Soldiers of stone, summoned by the ritual circle Archibald had formed from sand. Instead of expending his own od, the elderly magus had woven the free-floating mana into a Grand Ritual that would normally need hours of preparation and at least five experienced magi to cast. He'd managed it in seconds.

Almost instantly the enemy was in turmoil. Though they were but two dozen, Archibald's golems tore through the ranks of undead like you'd tear through a Coney Island hot dog. He hadn't stuck to a human shape; each one was a constantly shifting mass of sand and rock, jutting out spurs and crude blades whenever anything came into a certain radius. As the inside fell apart, I took care of the last stragglers on the front line with Miss Daisy.

When the last ghoul fell in time with the last bullet exiting my gun, I knew we'd made a mistake.

Archibald was sent flying back, his cane snapped in two, as a fist wrapped in white found its way to his stomach. True to form, he managed to offset the majority of the blow that would've blasted through flesh, but that didn't stop Aten from sending out feelers to wrap around the elderly magus in mid-air, reversing the man's momentum as he was whipped into a wall on the other side of the room like a home run ball.

For a moment, I couldn't remember how to operate the weapon in my hands, staring at it dumbly as if it was alien technology while desperately browsing my Record for the answer. By the time a new magazine had found its way into Miss Mary, she was joining Archibald in his journey through the skies, courtesy of a casual blow from Aten, whose rocky face was uncomfortably close to mine.

"_Slow_," he breathed. "You are so very _slow_."

My other hand found Miss Daisy and swung. He blocked my arm with his own, but didn't stop the rune on the butt of my revolver from multiplying the remaining force and sending it through the side of his head. He was sent reeling, and I went for Miss Jane.

Just as my fingers closed around the handle, feelers finished wrapping themselves around my foot. I fell, and he whirled, low to the ground, lifting me into the air and spinning me around like a gyroscope. Everything was a blur except those damned red eyes, and I resolved to put at least one bullet into them even as the edges of my vision darkened. Miss Jane barked, tearing through the linen and sending me flying. My back hit rock instead of water, knocking the rest of the air out of my lungs. I must've cracked something, because all of a sudden I couldn't feel my legs, or really anything below the waist.

As I propped myself up on my arms, a shadow fell over me. I looked up to see the same monster that had wrecked me, unharmed.

"_Weak_," he chuckled. "You are so very _weak_."

His foot snapped forward and the world spun. I was on my back. A white hot lance of pain surged through my spine as blood covered my lips, inside and out. Even then, I brought Miss Jane up, pointed it at those red eyes, and fired the second barrel one handed.

It missed, because Aten wasn't standing above me. Instead he crouched by my side, inspecting my free hand, which seemed to have sprouted a third elbow while I wasn't looking. Idly, he rotated my thumb around, snapping tendons and ligaments without care.

"But _you_," he said. "Are even _worse_. You're a _forgetful_ one, aren't _you_?"

My blood, which until that moment had been the only thing I could hear, ran cold. Summoning the last of my strength, I dropped Miss Jane and swung for Aten's face, screaming obscenities.

Or at least trying to. My hand wouldn't move. Neither would anything, actually. The tight feeling in my chest that I'd been ignoring, or perhaps forced to ignore, was all I could think of. There was something missing. Something important, I reasoned, because Aten wasn't doing a thing and it was still getting worse. All I could see was red eyes, and my lungs felt like they'd burst from inside my body.

"Try and re_member_," he said as he rose and walked away. The roar of the river was indistinguishable from the roar of the blood moving through my veins, pounding in my ears. "Though I doubt it's something you would think of re_cording_."

Breathing. I'd forgotten how to breathe.

He didn't even look back. I was already dead and neutralized, killed in the most pathetic fashion, suffocating on my own stupidity and regrets. The Record I'd inherited had gone to waste after all.

It was dark.

An emptiness that surged from inside and out.

The welcoming darkness of death.

In those terrifying moments, just after all five senses shut down, leaving behind only fading life in this broken form, I heard a voice speaking clearly, too young to be my own.

_"I will not allow it."_

In that moment, while the mummy's back was turned, my broken body moved. It sprang to its feet of its own accord, lungs full of electric air and Miss Jane loaded with a pair of fresh shells.

Aten spun, only to stare down the barrels of a sawn-off shotgun.

I blanked out. All information regarding the foreign object in my hands vanished. Everything I drew from my Record was wiped clean. Intentions collapsed, as did any thought I could possibly have. For one terrifying second I was nothing but a sack of meat and blood.

And then my fingers squeezed the trigger, and Aten's head exploded into a million pieces.

For a moment everything was empty. Me, the world, and the gun.

Then the headless body took two steps back, one step forward, and locked its hands around my throat.

My arm twisted, put Miss Jane against Aten, and blew away the bastard's elbows.

It tried to stumble after me again, but couldn't. One of Archibald's stone golems had wrapped its mass around Aten's legs, rooting them both in place. He gave one last desperate lunge, but my body stepped back of its own will, absently prying the decaying hands from my neck.

"You won't _survive_." Already the head was reforming itself. A skinless mouth screamed at me. "That power is _mine_. It was mine _then_, and it will be mine _now_!"

"No," I said weakly. "You're gonna rot under the dirt until you and this planet are _dead_."

"Oh, shut up," Archibald growled and then spat blood onto the stone. He leaned heavily on his cane, which was partially rock now. He rapped at my leg with the end. "Scribe, get to the boat now. This won't hold him for long." As if to prove him right, one of the golems fell apart and two others took its place. In the background, ghouls stumbled to their feet after pulling themselves together. In seconds we would be surrounded once more.

"Fuck that," I said, but my body obeyed on its own. Belatedly, I realized I wasn't directing it, not since I'd been thrown. I didn't even know how I was breathing.

The boat was wide enough for me to simply collapse the moment I stepped onto it, but small arms caught me, gently lowering my body to the wood. Seconds later, Archibald limped on board, slicing the ropes anchoring us to the surface with a stone blade. "Cast off," he commanded.

"Aye Aye," was the weak response.

I could only see the darkness above, but I felt the floor under me shudder as the boat started to move. It sailed onto the river smoothly, and the once harsh current was suddenly very smooth and comforting.

An inhuman scream split the air, but it was quickly swallowed up by the sound of flowing life.

I'd never been gladder to hear it.

Well, I'm writing this down now, so obviously I survived to tell the tale.

When I woke up my body was fit as a fiddle and jumping around like an energetic child. On its own, mind you. You'd sooner catch me dead than doing something that silly of my own will.

The boat was a relatively wide one and our ride was smooth, so there was plenty of room. Moriah stood nearby, looking intently at me as I performed an ever increasing series of ridiculous maneuvers.

When my body started doing the splits, I decided I'd had enough. I opened my circuits and circulated prana until I pinpointed a foreign sensation, something that my body didn't remember being there before. Severing the fake nerve was enough of a shock that I ended up knocking my noggin, but I'd say the preservation of my manhood was worth it.

"The hell was that?" I sputtered as I rose. I should probably mention at this point that I was rather under dressed. Someone had stripped me down only to my undergarments. My shirt was nowhere to be seen, and neither were the bandages on my chest. Not even a scar remained.

Moriah blushed and looked away. "I was merely… verifying that you had healed properly," she mumbled. "This river has a powerful restorative effect. We should be fully recovered once we reach Cairo, but I needed to make sure your body had repaired itself correctly."

"How was I moving around like that?" I saw a thin string retracting from my leg. In seconds, it had flowed back into one of the alchemist's golden bracelets.

"It's… a long story."

Well actually, it wasn't very long at all.

Turns out Moriah has this curious string called Etherlite that doubles as a second nervous system of sorts. After I fractured my back she hooked it into me, patched up the hole in my spine, got me breathing again, and was generally responsible for all that nonsense near the tail end of the debacle. All without leaving the confines of the boat. She seemed relatively embarrassed at revealing the information, though I can't imagine why. I'm certainly not complaining.

I had to cut her off before she gave me the history of the bloody stuff, which would be nice to know about at a later date, when we weren't trying to save ourselves and the world.

"Where's Archibald?" I asked.

"Up front, recuperating. He took almost as much damage as you." Moriah's answers were coming slower, and she refused to look me in the eye.

"Might as well check on him, then." I turned to go, but was stopped by her hand on mine.

"Wait," Moriah said.

"I gotta report to the boss."

"Wait," she repeated. "Please, stay."

I waited. Moriah paused, sorting things out in her mind, but it was plain as day that it wasn't working. Some things just can't be resolved with logic.

I took a seat, leaning against the wooden structure in the center of the boat. Thanks to the dampening spell woven into the ship, the noise of the river was reduced to a dull beating in the background. After a moment of hesitation, the young alchemist sat down next to me.

"I won't apologize," she said eventually. "I have my reasons."

I got up again. "Then don't. I get it. Atonement, right? That's a fine motivation. Restoring the family name's nothing to laugh at. Just like Archibald."

In hindsight, that wasn't one of my best moments. I just couldn't resist pointing out, even if it was being unfair. Hypocrisy is something we all live with, an unspoken part of everyone's lives. Even if you want to, you can't always do the right thing, so there's nothing wrong with being selfish once in a while. It wasn't her mistake, but mine. I'd forgotten that simple fact by expecting something too coldly logical, and gotten burned for it like a child.

Yet, she took the unreasonable insult in stride, as if she'd heard a thousand more like it.

"No, that's not it." I stopped. Gotta admit, the girl was getting to me. I've known some ladies who'd dance around an issue better than they dance around me, but seeing it from someone I'd come to consider fairly reasonable was a whole new matter.

I sat across from Moriah, crossed my legs and arms, and stared her in the eye. "If you have something to say," I said. "Then go on. I'm listening."

It could've been anything. Maybe she was going to give me her life story. Maybe this would be a confession that she'd inadvertently downloaded all of my memories while using the Etherlite. Or maybe the river of life had turned my hair white.

Instead, she looked down, took a deep breath, and said something I couldn't possibly have expected.

"If we do not address them, our feelings for each other will eventually interfere with the mission."

I interrupted her. "Oh hell no."

She soldiered on and kept going. "I realized it after what happened here. If you are in danger, I won't be able to sacrifice your life. It wasn't a problem initially, but you've been getting far too close to me during our time together, and I'm fairly certain the attraction is mutual at this point."

"You can't know that." How the hell did she even figure it out? I couldn't have been _that_ obvious. I'd thought that my anger would mask things, but had it just confirmed her suspicions?

"More than once, I've caught you looking at my-"

"I was delirious!"

She paused to take a breath. "True feelings aside, it would be better for the mission if we kept our relationship professional. If you could treat me the same as you would Archibald, then that would be ideal." Her cheeks had flushed red, but once she got started, the engine wouldn't stop.

"You're not serious."

"I am completely serious. The mission comes first. We must both do our best to keep things objective. I've been trying to keep things from progressing, but…"

My palm found its way to my face. "Objective? Goddamn it, you're talking like we're youngsters that think re-enacting Romeo and Juliet is the peak of romance."

"…until last year, I fit that definition."

I did not want to be having that conversation. I'll say it again just for emphasis. I did _not_ want to be having that conversation. Maybe I should've insisted on seeing Archibald after all. At least he wouldn't start proposing right after a life-or-death battle. Every conversation with our Guide is like walking in quicksand: The more I try to get away, the faster I sink.

"Look." I seized Moriah's shoulders. She fidgeted, looking away. "Calm down, dollface." Did I really just call her that? "No one's going to explode into melodramatic confessions, and no one's going to pretend to be an unfeeling golem either."

"The latter approach is more than effective at warding off advances."

"Only because you have no idea what an ice queen is." I stopped, because I was also getting heated up. It wasn't fair. It's not like I _asked_ to get attached to a bright soul with too much heart and not enough sense. One of us needed to be the voice of reason. "Moriah. Do I seem like the kind of guy who'd get all dizzy with a dame just because I fancied her?" Sometimes you don't get what you need.

"…no."

Well I am. I'm _exactly_ that kind of guy. There's enough sob stories in this damn Record to prove it, and not one with a happy ending. I wanted to rage. I wanted to scream and damn the injustice of it all. Once more that indescribable urge came up, telling me to get her to quit it with the frustrating nonsense and those stupidly innocent words. I wanted to punch Archibald, Moriah, and myself in the face until we all stopped being so damn dysfunctional.

I also wanted to kiss her.

I leaned closer, until I could smell the sweat on her skin.

"And you? Are you gonna start swooning in the middle of a fight? We've only known each other for a few days. I know I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good, and you've got a decent head on your shoulders."

She pouted, realizing I was talking down to her now. "You're missing the point."

I could've pressed it, but my better judgement told me to can it. Sometimes it's better to just let inexperienced people come to a conclusion on their own, especially if they're the stubborn sort. So instead, I shifted until we were right next to each other, and draped my arm around her shoulders. It was for both our benefits. At this point, I couldn't back out either.

"Um." Still shirtless, by the way.

"Yes," I said. "You asked for a yes, and you're getting one. Yes, I'll wait. You asked me to stay with you, so that's exactly what I'm going to do. Think of it as thanks for saving my life."

Hesitantly, as if she were afraid of being punished, she let herself lean against my side. "And… what if something happens?" she whispered, voicing the last of her doubt.

I stared at the roaring river that filled my body with life and washed away all wounds. Judging by the speed of the current, we had at least an hour until Cairo. After that, our lifespans could be measured in days.

"What happens, happens."


	10. Sixth Entry (Part One)

Secrets must be concealed.

That is the principal tenet of the Mage's Association.

For an organization devoted to the preservation and improvement of thaumaturgy, that one phrase is what drives their actions. I am a member of that association, a fact I will admit, though not happily. My partnership isn't even my own; I inherited it from my Master after he passed away. The Association believes that he may have passed on his knowledge before he died. That small possibility, that the magecraft of someone who was meant to have been Sealed could still exist in the world, is the reason I'm in this mess.

No, scratch that. It's definitely my fault. Doesn't mean I can't blame everyone else, though.

Secrets brought us here. All three of us.

But for whom do those secrets exist? They are only there to serve those who created them. I protect my life. Archibald protects his pride. Moriah protects her delusions.

Right now, when there's something more important to protect, concealing those secrets is a useless habit.

The enemy we face destroys secrets. Memories are just an extension of that. Only by bringing that which was hidden into the light can we truly prevail.

But as I've found out, dragging someone out of the darkness is harder than it looks. I can only hope our efforts have been enough.

The last entry ended prematurely. A better man than I would've finished it, but I seem to have dozed off near the end. As it is, I don't feel like extending it, so I'll break this unofficial rule of mine and write more than one entry per day.

Well, it's not exactly day here.

We didn't make land. The river didn't stop, and there were no ports to serve as destinations for our passage. Instead, the Nile slowed down, going from a roaring beast to a laconic flow, giving us plenty of time to look ahead.

While Archibald and I were puzzled as to exactly how we were expected to get above ground, barring excessive force and simply waiting to be washed out to sea, Moriah outlined the plan in one sentence.

"Throw a rope up and climb."

At a certain point, the alchemist wove her strings together and cast them upwards, hooking onto a hidden latch of some sort. After verifying that the connection was secure, she tied us both to the lifeline and started slithering up the rope like a rattlesnake. The slow current gave us plenty of time to attempt the same, and I was up in a minute. Archibald took a bit more time due to his advanced age, but progressed swiftly.

As we hung from the ceiling, our vessel drifted into the darkness.

Moriah reached the top and, after a few whispered phrases, climbed _into_ the ceiling. Her hand came back out of the illusory rock, beckoning us to follow.

We emerged into a tight space. After having grown used to amateur spelunking, it wasn't much of a surprise, though the cramped quarters, lack of lighting, and presence of what I'm fairly sure was a long dead explorer next to the trap door didn't help matters. At least this one wasn't moving. The worst part was the loss of the Nile. The river's presence had been comforting and rejuvenating, but the moment I passed through the passage all traces of it vanished instantly, as if through a spell. Even the half-dozen mana potions in my pack weren't a suitable substitute.

The Guide didn't bother with history lessons. She just led the way.

We walked for what felt like ages through the darkness. Occasionally we crawled, following our Guide's whispered directions. No light was allowed. We would soon find out why.

The first indicator was the air. No more than a breath, the fractionally cooler breeze signalled the end of our short foray. It was accompanied by a familiar, unpleasant smell that I couldn't pinpoint. When we finally emerged, barely able to stand, there was no light to greet us.

We stepped out into heaven.

Well, perhaps not quite Heaven in the literal sense of the word. I'd certainly call it a welcome sight, though.

Guns. Ammo. Crates and crates of explosives, each stamped in the Queen's English. The smell I'd scented was of gunpowder, strong enough to colour the air. I saw rifles and shotguns and pistols and grenades and mortar shells the size of a hand. The man-made room was the size of my office and was so packed full of weaponry that we barely had enough room to squeeze through. The tiny hole we'd entered through was gone as if it had never existed.

"This is…"

"A British armory," Moriah explained. "These hills have been used as store rooms for quite some time. Nothing in here seems to have seen much use, but it looks to have been delivered quite recently."

"Beautiful."

"What are you babbling about, Scribe?" Archibald didn't share my sentiments. "Guide, where are we?"

"Near Cairo. We will need to make our way through the nearby army camp to get there, however."

"Then it shall be done. Scribe, come."

"No."

"Huh?"

"Gimme five minutes."

Archibald refused.

I insisted.

He relented, standing outside the door and looking for a mouse to catch and turn into a familiar. Moriah shot me an odd look, but didn't object to my sudden request.

Oh, how wonderful it all was.

I grabbed a dozen Pineapples and a Tommygun with three different kinds of magazines. It wouldn't replace Miss Jane, who'd been lost on her first sortie, but I could get it enchanted once I made it back to London. There were a few Stens, but nothing beats the weight of a Tommy in your hands. I also swiped a Bren and enough ammo for it to put down an elephant. An enterprising idiot had apparently ordered a Trench Gun for some reason, despite it being next to useless in desert warfare, so I liberated them from the weapon with pleasure. They had a Browning, but those tend to run out at the worst possible moments, so I left it. I even took a spare Lee Enfield, in case something happened to Miss Velvet. Miss Daisy got herself a shinier twin.

There was also a strange, tube-shaped weapon there, sealed in a high priority crate. It looked for all the world like a portable mortar of some kind, but its ammunition resembled some kind of grenade designed to be propelled like a bullet. I took it and a few of its strange companions. It's not as if the Army is going to be needing any of these, and my cause is just enough that I won't feel bad about it later.

Of course, I also loaded up on all the ammunition I could carry, and enough explosives to level a small building.

When I came out of the armory and into an even larger, emptier cavern, Archibald looked me over and sighed.

"You look like a damn fool."

"It's only three packs." They _were_ a bit heavy.

"A damn, damn fool."

Then he broke into a coughing fit. He took a seat on a stone step and tried to exhale his lungs in a most ungentlemanly matter. Moriah just stared blankly at the darkness, a dusty silhouette caked with sand. She'd never looked so beautiful.

"We proceed forward. The city is that way."

"Anything between us and it?"

Instead of answering, she showed us. The cavern linked to another, and another, and so on, each one displaying more and more signs of being regularly used. It was less of a cave system and more of a quarry, but it didn't seem like anything had been harvested for quite some time. Instead, military gear and items were strewn across haphazardly.

"The British Army."

The _British Army_. Well, that explained the weapons.

"Around?"

Moriah shook her head. "Through."

Archibald just nodded, too weary to say anything. I keep forgetting that he's geriatric. For a man at least in his sixties, not being tired after such exertion would be strange.

We exited into open air and were greeted by the night sky and a sea of tents before us. We had to duck back into the cavern for a moment as a patrol of five rather jovial soldiers walked by, chatting about a local bar and women, and how lucky they were to have not been sent to the front lines. It was a grim reminder of our time limit. The second battle of El Alamein was too close for comfort, as was the predicted genocide we were working to prevent.

Archibald was rather sour. "This is going to waste time," he growled. "I just know it."

Moriah nodded sadly.

Getting to Cairo was a hassle. We'd been through all sorts of magical threats, but mundane ones are much more sensitive in nature. Archibald couldn't kill anyone for risk of damning the future (not that I would have allowed it, even with my meagre influence), nor could we be discovered and thus cause a ruckus. That left a quiet approach.

The camp itself was the size of a city block and rather haphazard in construction, with a hidden organization beneath. We'd emerged from the back of the camp, where tall hills obscured the horizon. Doubling back and going around would take all night and leave us useless the next day.

Time not being on our side, "Through" remained our travel vector, even if it necessitated a bit of trouble.

We waited a quarter hour until a lone British soldier's patrol brought him near our position on the edge. In moments he was bound and gagged by string that was almost invisible in the dark. A quick hypnotism predated his immediate release, after which he proceeded to divulge anything and everything he knew that could possibly aid us.

It wasn't much, but it was enough. We let him go sans a few uncomfortable memories. He'll probably think it was a cigarette break that kept him there for so long.

More important than the man's knowledge was his dress. Two quick Projections (from Archibald, ever full sack of prana that he is) produced fragile copies of the original uniform, and some personal Alterations on top of that made them bearable, if not comfortable. Moriah was left without any disguise, but we'd planned around that as well.

We marched as a line with her in the middle. Strings bound the girl's wrists behind her back, and she glared at anyone passing by. The main road through the camp was mostly empty at night, and only a few sleepy soldiers passed by. A few did double-takes and one made to say something, but reconsidered at the last moment and hastily ducked into a tent. Even the flimsy disguises were given strength by the compulsion Archibald had placed over us.

Just as I came to that conclusion, a short, chubby, mustached officer stepped out of the large tent we were in the middle of passing. He took one look at us and didn't hesitate.

"Halt," was the command, and he delivered it with authority.

We kept going. Obviously the man was speaking to another nearby soldier.

"I said _halt_. Arrêtez. Whatever the word is in your language. I say this because you folks are obviously not from around here."

Archibald stopped, and we followed a moment later.

Our magus looked back and took off his hat. He fixed the officer with his strongest glare.

The officer laughed and ran a hand through thinning hair. "My god," he breathed in between fits of unmanly giggling. "Lysander! It's you! You of all people waltzing through my camp as if you own it!"

Archibald sneered at the display. "Maxwell." I didn't recognize the name or the face attached to it, and neither did Moriah.

Upon hearing his name, the officer relaxed. He brushed his extravagant mustache with one hand as his beady eyes ran over Moriah and I. "Come in," he said at length. "The tent is empty. We will talk there."

"As you've no doubt guessed," Archibald replied. "We're in a bit of a hurry."

"It can wait," Maxwell said flippantly. His hand came down, resting near the pistol hanging from his hip. "This is my territory, Lysander. As the acting Supervisor of Cairo, it is my responsibility to make sure nothing is amiss."

"Shouldn't you be in London, working on that thesis of yours?"

He shrugged. "Someone has to be here. The Association refuses to leave the war to the mundanes, as much as it despises the idea of involving itself in such an intellectually worthless event. Thus, I'm the compromise. It's a thankless job, but someone has to do it. Now will you come in, or will I fail to overlook the weaponry your lackey has stolen from my camp?"

Archibald's grip on his cane tightened. "A few minutes, then," he relented.

"Excellent. You may leave the rabble outside. I was just making tea."

"They come with me."

Maxwell looked at Archibald as if he'd grown a third head. The squat man scanned our faces again and sneered. "If you insist. I suppose every man has a right to choose his subordinates."

Archibald brushed past the officer and ducked into the tent. The squat man followed, doing a horrible job of hiding his irritation. Moriah and I exchanged looks, and then shrugs.

"Ladies first."

"You are the first to ever refer to me by that title."

"Well I can guarantee I won't be the last."

The inside of the tent was spacious enough. We had room enough to walk around without bending over, and the few luxuries present were enough to hypothesize that those of lower rank weren't allowed inside. The myriad of magical instruments in one corner, hidden a boundary field as basic as our compulsion, cemented the theory. The center of the tent was taken up by three chairs and a table, upon which rested a large map and several miniature figures and utensils. A combat knife was embedded in the wood several inches deep, carving a slice between Cairo and the Pyramids of Gaza.

"Excuse the mess," Maxwel said. He pulled the knife out of its improvised sheath with a minimum of huffing and puffing, and waved a hand over the resulting scar, restoring it to pristine condition. "Lower necessities tend to wear on the mind almost as much as higher quandaries."

"Commanding tens of thousands of soldiers to die for you?" Archibald said.

"A constant distraction," the portly man said. He sighed as he sank into the most comfortable chair of the lot. Archibald took the stool straight across, leaving Moriah and I to eye the remaining seat.

"Odds?"

"92% chance you cede it to me within the next ten seconds."

"I'll go with the majority on this one."

She settled down, leaving me to lean uncomfortably against a tent-post while Archibald and his friend spoke. They didn't pay us much attention, as if we were just another pair of decorations. I can honestly admit that the first few minutes completely fell out of my attention, with Maxwell dancing the dance of introductions like an enthusiast. Archibald's responses were universally short and to the point, but the other magus seemed to be in love with every word that came out of his mouth.

In short, it was like watching a plump turkey dancing in front of a pissed off hound.

"It's all bad business, Lysander," Maxwell eventually said wearily. "The whole thing just reeks of it. I envy the freedom old Barty gives you."

"There hasn't been much freedom at all," Archibald replied. Where Maxwell slumped, Archibald sat straight like a stone pillar, staring straight ahead. "We're still recovering from the Blitz. It's been slow going. When's the last time you went home?"

"Oh, ages," the portly man waved off Archibald's words. "Like I said: bad business. Montgomery's a good chap, for a mundane, but I'm the one who has to deal with those bloody Axis Magi. It seems like every week they're trying to send more spies and agents and who knows what into the city. Intercepting them is like trying to make tea with a newspaper!"

"From here, it looks as if you've been performing your duties satisfactorily," Archibald said. "The city doesn't seem as if it's seen any serious amount of fighting."

"Because I've been keeping it that way!" Maxwell roared, slamming his fist on the table with unexpected force. Several pieces fell over. "For every one I catch, I have to negotiate with two more just to keep them from collapsing Cairo! Just the other day some upstart Einzbern brat waltzed in here with a dozen of his abominations and demanded I give him free access to my prisoners. Before that it was the Church thinking they could establish a forward outpost in neutral territory. No respect! No shame! What's the world coming to when bloody nobodies like those two know more about the rules than people with actual families!?"

The silence afterwards was a deep one.

Eventually, Archibald broke it.

"Bad business," he agreed. "However, the Association will appreciate your contribution."

The other man nodded absently, accepting the lie with grace. Fat chance, he seemed to say. The attitude over the War was one of annoyance for most magi, and of fanatical devotion for a small minority. The Barthomelois are obviously in the former category, because they can't wrap their heads around anything other than killing vampires and running the Clock Tower in their spare time. The most Maxwell would be getting for his work was a useless medal or diploma, some small bits of credit with the few families interested enough in the war to care, and the eternal hatred of Germany's whole magus population.

"What about you, Lysander?" Maxwell asked, seeming to deflate a bit. "What brings you to the edge of a war zone? There's hardly anything worth your time here. Are you here to replace me? Make a bid for some artifacts, perhaps? Or are you simply enjoying your lack of responsibility?"

"I have responsibilities. I simply choose not to share them so freely. You can be assured that they don't involve you." Earlier I'd thought that Archibald held some kind of special hatred for me for being a first generation magus. Now I've revised that opinion. He's just a prick to everyone, even his equals. I could've done a better job at hiding my blatant distaste for the ongoing conversation.

The man smiled and ran a finger across his mustache. "Oho? Well you can certainly confide in me if those servants of yours already know. As the Supervisor, I could be of some aid."

Moriah tugged on my sleeve. I felt her string digging words and numbers into my palm. They weren't favourable.

It wasn't hard to see why. This was a conversation loaded with enough politics to fill the morning papers. Normally it'd be a long, drawn out affair, but Archibald wasn't playing the game, leaving Maxwell to keep it going himself. The natural conclusion to such a lopsided set up is obvious.

Archibald leaned back, relaxing and lifting his chin up. "Not at all," he said coldly.

"Come now!" Maxwell was sweating. His arms trembled from repressed anger. "Are we not friends, Lysander? Do you remember how we would study together in our first years?"

The older man paused and seemed to recall something. The corners of his wrinkled lips turned up slightly, and his eyebrows narrowed as he leaned forward. Archibald's words were deliberate. "Actually," he said. "I do recall a worm that tried to leech off of my talents, but I doubt someone that abhorrent would ever grow up to occupy a position as desirable as yours."

Moriah tensed, as did I. Yet instead of an angry outburst from our host, we only got a laugh, identical to the one he'd greeted us with. "Ah, there it is. I'd hoped you'd eventually wise up to your situation, but it appears that pride of yours will be the last to fall after all."

Maxwell slammed his hand onto the map on the desk. The lines that dotted the image of the battlefield lit up with faint blue light in the pattern of an intricate ritual circle. The air in the tent was suddenly thinner, as if we'd risen a thousand feet in the space of a second.

The portly man stood. The blue glow travelled up his hand, manifesting in his narrowed eyes. "Know your place, trash," he hissed at Archibald. "Your family may have been above mine at one point, but all that remains of that lineage is a legacy of laughingstocks chasing after empty myths. Any power that bloodline once held is dust on the wind. The Vice Director won't lower himself to protect a fallen associate, particularly not against the commander of such a critical area. You are in _my_ Workshop now."

My gun was out in seconds and pointed at the Supervisor's head, but neither paid me any attention. Moriah was the one who pushed my hand down before it could squeeze the trigger. "It won't work," she whispered as she rose to her feet beside me. "He has manipulated the atmosphere against us. We cannot interfere." Her hand and voice shook like the last leaves of fall.

"See, Lysander? Even these nobodies understand the situation. I suggest you soften that hard head of yours and try to do the same."

Instead of heeding his advice, Archibald raised an eyebrow. He crossed one leg over the other and let his cane rest on the floor. "Am I supposed to feel threatened?"

"You-!"

"Disable your bounded field," Lysander Octavius Archibald commanded. "Let us proceed in peace. We studied together once, so I'm giving you a warning you don't deserve. You shouldn't squander it."

He's insane. I realized it just as Maxwell did. Archibald's a crazy bastard even by magus standards. No negotiation, no politics. This entire time he's done what he wants, when he wants, even if it meant losing out in the long run. There's being hard-headed, and then there's _this_. If I'd known my new boss would be so suicidal, I would've taken my chances with the loan sharks.

"You're at a disadvantage, Lysander. You can't do anything here."

"I could say the same," our magus replied, tapping out a soft rhythm on his cane. "If you die here, it will have been German spies that killed you, not our magecraft. Your family will know nothing."

A thought occurs to me as I write this. When one throws themselves out of a tall building or airplane, can you really say they seek death if it's the ground that loses?

It ended before it could even begin. The officer opened his mouth to utter an aria, and never closed it. A thin needle of sand rose up from between Archibald's feet, passing through the tent's floor, the wooden table, and the back of Maxwell's head. For a moment he gaped at the sight like a fish drowning on air, throat bulging and eyes dilating. Then there was a choked gasp, and he was still.

Archibald snorted. "Typical," he said as he stood up. He brushed a few particles of sand from his dirtied clothes as Maxwell slumped down into his chair. "The fool always did go for the flashy nonsense first. Not a practical bone in that body."

Moriah was trembling. I moved to steady her, and she fell against my chest like a puppet with its strings cut. "What did you do?" she asked softly.

"Prepared spell," Archibald snapped as he moved around to the other side of the table, an expensive handkerchief in his fingers. "A two line aria spoken at a previous time, stored in an artifact or Crest for instant use later. It's a fairly simple process, but some tend to be too attached to the grandeur of chanting to consider adopting it. At least you're not one of those people, Scribe."

"Not that!" she snapped. All the weakness in her body evaporated as fuel for anger. Moriah straightened, shoved my hand away, and took a single step forward. "Do you have any idea," she spat. "What you have done?"

The reason she didn't take another step was the same needle that had killed Maxwell, pointed right at her throat. She shook, with rage, not fear. Archibald stared at her as if examining a specimen. At length, he answered. "I got rid of something that was in my way."

"That man was a British officer," I said. I hadn't un-holstered my gun, but I sure as hell hadn't let go of it. "He was one of the people winning the war for us, asshole or not, and you offed him so you wouldn't have to _share_."

"Irrelevant," Archibald said. He turned away from us and started wiping away the blood slowly making its way down Maxwell's face from his nose. "Stopping Aten will win us the war."

"No, stopping Aten gets _you_ a nice, fat favour from the Vice Director. Stopping Aten clears _your_ crazy grandfather's name. Stopping that piece of shit gets you everything _you_ want." I had to force myself to let go of the gun, for fear of shooting without meaning to. "Are you gonna burn down the whole city if that's what it takes to get your reward?"

"It won't come to that." Archibald ignored my near-rant. The expensive handkerchief wiped away the blood on the back of Maxwell's neck. The old man's wrinkled fingers closed the dead man's eyelids, and his hands pushed and pulled and prodded the body into a pose that made it look as if Maxwell had simply died of a heart attack or stroke instead of something worse.

Archibald looked up at me. "Helping me puts _your_ financial worries to rest, permanently. Helping me raises _your_ meager standing in the Association enough that every magus won't consider you a laughingstock. Helping me is the same as helping yourself."

He folded the handkerchief and placed it in his pocket. "If we are speaking on terms of who stands the most to gain, I'd say you've almost certainly reached my level. Now stop being so bloody sensitive. You're behaving like a _woman_."

Then his eyes shifted to Moriah, who still stood, caught in her own indignation. The spear of sand shifted, caressing the skin above her throat. "And you, Guide? You get absolutely nothing apart from my meager payment. Of us three, you are the _least_ trustworthy. At least a greedy fool can be trusted to behave like a greedy fool."

She didn't dignify his statement with anything short of a glare.

My gun came up. "Knock it off." The spear split, and before I could blink the barrel had been plugged with sand. If I tried to shoot, Miss Jane was more likely than not going to blow up in my face.

"Quiet. The girl may have seduced you, but such petty trick won't affect me." Archibald walked right up to my face. He was almost as tall as me. "All I ask," he said very calmly. "Is that you do your job. Am I being too presumptuous about your abilities if you can't even manage that much?"

It pains me to say it, but he wasn't.

The numbers being carved into my palm made the choice easier.

The gun came down.

At that very second, the tent flap opened and a slightly overweight soldier ducked inside, blissfully unaware of the situation. Upon glimpsing the scene his eyes widened and he opened his mouth to shout for alarm.

My gunshot intercepted the spear in time. The projectile broke through Archibald's spell, returning the rigid structure to sand. In the next second my fist hit the soldier's stomach, blowing the air out of his lungs and stopping his yell short. Within moments he was out for the count, and Archibald was glaring at me like a hairless dog.

"The noise will alert the whole camp," he said.

"They were gonna find out eventually," I replied.

"Fighting will get you both killed," Moriah added.

We postponed the confrontation and high tailed it out of there.

I'll spare the needless exposition. Surely Archibald wouldn't care about a daring evasion that took us an entire hour. Even Moriah would likely think little of the scores of soldiers we had to slip past, or how the whole camp was in an uproar over the death for the rest of the night. I definitely don't want to spend another minute writing about something that means little in the end when I could be doing something productive, such as sleeping.

Eventually we slipped out of the camp and into the city proper.

I'm worried about the fallout of Maxwell's death. A leaderless army can be almost as dangerous as one governed by a genius. However, I can think of no solutions to the conundrum so I'll have to bear Archibald's insanity for now.

We quickly found a place to rest. The owner of the pub on the edge of the city was apparently either dead or on vacation. Either way, we set up a bounded field to repel people and settled in.

None of us tried to so much as speak with each other. Archibald _does_ get cranky when he hasn't had his beauty sleep, and neither of us was willing to risk a spark burning up our fragile camaraderie.

My night didn't end there, as much as I wish it had.

Archibald took the upstairs. Moriah claimed a small bedroom on the ground floor, and I was left with a cellar full of alcohol and no one with which to share it. We parted silently.

Just as I was about to start writing the previous entry, I heard footsteps down the stairs. I turned to take a look.

It was Moriah. I hate to say it, but I'd almost have preferred Archibald. At least with him I know where I stand.

"Can we talk?" she asked quietly. Her eyes wouldn't meet mine. She fumbled with her fingers like a teenage girl. As if I could refuse. We've been doing an awful lot of talking these past few days, and it's actually making me nervous. I've found that with words and women, less is often better than more. In this case, such a thing wasn't a possibility.

"Go ahead," I motioned to another barrel of wine. "Not exactly fine accommodation, though."

She looked up and forced herself to smile. Girl was almost as tired as I was. "I'll take it."

Well, I'll spare the details. Again, sleep is a foe I'm not keen to battle tonight, and supposedly I'll need my strength for tomorrow. And every man deserves his privacy, even from his own Record. Perhaps I'll jot down the details later. Perhaps not.

The gist of the conversation, though, is that things are going to be getting worse before they get better. Specifically, more difficult, unpleasant, and generally shitty for me.

Yes, me. She was quite insistent on it. As if I needed any more bad news. This job is turning out to be possibly the most frustrating one I've ever taken, and that's including China. At least Emperor Qin was nice enough not to turn his Terracotta Army into a bunch of vampires. It'll still take a few decades just to clear the site for the mundane archaeologists to explore, but the fallout never ran the risk of ending a whole nation.

Oh, my mind's wandering. This entry's becoming messier by the minute. Might be the alcohol. Probably is the alcohol.

Okay, it's definitely the alcohol. Maybe a bit of sleep deprivation, too.

As to how that booze managed to weasel its way inside me… Moriah was also quite insistent on one other thing. If her predictions hadn't been proved accurate, I would never have even considered the idea. It was as farfetched as the image of Archie in a tutu. The suggestion was a ridiculous one by any standards.

Of course, I ended up going with it. That's how I ended up wandering alone through the streets in the middle of the night, looking for all the world like a tired soldier getting off his shift.

And, like a tired soldier getting off his shift for the night, I ended up where all such people tend to congregate.

Cairo has a strange atmosphere. I've just remembered that. It feels almost like a British city at times, with the modern architecture and cramped residences. Tall buildings, tall windows, and an overpowering feeling of close knit secureness make me feel like a rat in a cage.

Yet at times the familiar construction melts into cruder stone buildings that have nonetheless stood for years. The height relaxes and lets the skyline assert itself. Occasionally you can get a glimpse of the tip of a pyramid in the distance. I never wandered around those areas for long. The wide roads split off into tiny alleys that built upon themselves in a pattern-less sprawl that one could get lost in all too easily.

Luckily, my destination was simple to spot, and only a few minutes away from our temporary base of operations.

The music ebbed as I pushed the doors open. I felt two dozen stares on me, and the whole atmosphere of the building seemed to abate slightly as they examined a newcomer, judging silently. The musicians playing antiquated jazz tunes didn't stop, but seemed to sink into the background until their tunes were just background noise.

Then it was over, and I was just another customer in the bar. It was rather empty with most of its occupants preparing to fight and die more than two hundred kilometres away. The few soldiers that remained either nursed their drinks and spoke in low tones or danced jovially, full of gratitude they weren't the ones risking their lives.

I pushed my way past a few of the aforementioned off-duty soldiers, apologized for bumping into an out-of-place Arab with bloody bandages wrapped around his head, and took a free spot at the counter between a slight, hooded man and a shabby soldier, who seemed to have gorged himself on exotic spirits until he was a drooling mess that took a sip every ten seconds on the dot.

The bartender grunted at me. His dark beard was longer than his hair, but plaited in a fashion reminiscent of a Viking.

I nodded and pointed at one of the dull bottles arranged behind the counter.

He didn't move, except to tap a sign written in broken English, warning that all payment was now upfront.

I slapped a few coins onto the counter. He shook his head. I doubled the amount, and as he reached forward to scoop them up, I fixed him with a tired glare and held up two fingers.

After a few moments, he nodded sourly and slid two cloudy glasses in front of me, filling them with a liquid I couldn't begin to recognize. I took one for myself and slipped the other in front of the hooded stranger to my left.

They wrinkled their nose. "I don't drink."

"Then pretend to. I'm not dying alone." It went down hard, which is exactly what I needed.

The hooded person sniffed and leaned back slightly. "Disgusting."

"It is. Try some."

She did, and then started coughing after a sip. I didn't bother trying to hide my chuckle, and neither did the mute bartender.

"It's an acquired taste," I admitted. "Mind taking down the cloth? You're making me feel underdressed."

They paused, seemed to weigh the options, and then unceremoniously pulled down the hood.

I saw long blonde hair and a beautiful face wearing a decidedly not beautiful expression. The Sister raised an eyebrow, examining me as if I was an interesting pattern in her tea leaves.

"You," she said. "Are not who I was expecting."


	11. Sixth Entry (Part Two)

Before my recollection continues along its chronological threads, I will take a few paragraphs to address something that may not be readily apparent. I am no writer; my personal journal is rarely professional or in any state resembling coherent organization. This rather novella-ish method I employ is a stopgap to keep everything flowing one way. Certainly, if I were to skip from hour to hour like a rabbit in breeding season, even I would get a headache from trying to read what is written in these pages.

Yet, this methodical approach is limited precisely by what is recorded and how. Many times I have read my old recordings and realized that key elements had been left out or put in a less than prominent light. No doubt I will one day look back on this piece and point out all the errors that could have easily been fixed with a minimum of attention. Until then, I'll settle for filling in a few of the blanks that have popped up, clearly and concisely.

I did not, in fact, know who I was to meet in this run-down shithole of a bar. All Moriah told me, and all she was willing to share, was that I should expect a familiar face here, and that I needed to convince it that our cause was just and we needed aid. I had been forced into the uncomfortable role of ambassador, which can be said to be the complete opposite of the more passive title I've grown used to wearing. I wasn't sure if the girl was leaning on me because I'm the only one she could trust, or because she knows she's got me dancing like a puppet on her strings. Either way, there wasn't much of a choice to be made.

So, perhaps it's now easier to see why the drink was necessary.

A dame to kill for. A pocket full of cash. A night neither young nor old, but aged like fine wine. An exotic foreign country and more than enough mystery to make even the mundane seem magical.

The perfect mix of ingredients for the perfect blind date.

Men would trade their souls to replicate such circumstances. I'd have traded mine to make sense of it all.

The Sister stared at me, unblinking. Part of me wanted to show her a quick draw the likes of which she'd never seen. Another part planned its escape, testing to see if it could get away with throwing the glass in her face and running. Yet another was trying to come up with a good way to get the rest of her clothes off before I put a halt to it with the help of a drink that'd probably be considered poison in some countries.

When the cup hit the counter again, she still stared at me.

Damn stares. I hate them. There's only ever one reason that someone will look right at you for longer than a second, and it's never good for you. It always boils down to judging. Whether it's judging you to be an inferior magus and shoddy Scribe, a silly crush that'll disappear like snow in July, or a heathen and heretic for whom no mercy should be spared, the impressions given will never really be accurate. That woman saw what she wanted to see in my mug, and found no problem with it.

If I was to have any chance of getting out of that bar alive, I'd need to shake up that impression pronto.

I put down the glass and waved the bartender away. As he retreated I eyed my new conversational partner. "If you go through life thinking everything's gonna be just fine and dandy," I said. "You're gonna have a hard time."

An invisible blade pressed against my back. The very definition of a hard time.

"T-third time's the charm, ain't it?"

She frowned. "What?"

"This is our third meeting. Maybe you'll have better luck this time."

The blade moved forward slightly. I leaned into my drink to stop my spine from being filleted. She wasn't amused. Gone was the proud preacher I'd fought earlier. This Sister had been humbled and come out of it smarter and colder.

I continued the story before she could lose her patience. "There's an old superstition making its rounds. Says a first impression will lie to you, a second one will tell you too much, and the third one's when you really know who you're talking to."

"I don't follow such pagan beliefs."

"Neither do I," I said. "That's one thing we agree on. How about we see if there's any more?"

This time the pressure was on my neck. The hand around my throat didn't squeeze. It didn't need to. The promise alone was enough. "Your honeyed words will have no effect," the Sister said. "Give me one reason I shouldn't kill you right now."

"Honestly? Because with all the shit I've gotten myself into, you'd be doing me a favour."

It was enough. My supposed intentions were enough to make the pressure vanish completely. When dealing with people that can kill you with a snap of their fingers, one needs to learn to appreciate the smaller things in life. I took advantage of the new freedom to chug half the glass.

It went down even harder.

I looked up. Ah, disgust. The Sister wasn't wearing her poker face tonight.

"I will not be an accessory to your suicide."

"If you're not gonna help, then why don't you hear my confession? Maybe you'll redeem this twisted soul and score points with the guy upstairs." My only hope was to catch her off guard. As morbid as it was, this direction held the greatest hope of survival.

"The sins of a magus cannot be cast aside so easily. Also, you are my _enemy_."

"Not right now I ain't. Right now I'm your contact."

The Sister contemplated her glass and took another sip. It went down as badly as the first, and she came out of it both coughing and with tears in the corners of her eyes. "I was expecting someone from Atlas," she said. "As far as I can tell, you're a magus. A horrible one, but still a magus."

"Atlas couldn't make it," I replied. "Old Archie's too suspicious of her right now, so I came in her stead."

"Why should I trust you?"

I dropped one of Moriah's armbands onto the table. There was a miniscule hole in it, from which I drew a small length of string. When I let go, it shot back into the metal like a tape measure.

The Sister reached for it and started pulling. Her fingers were dainty. If the nails hadn't been cropped short, all she'd have needed was a bit of polish to look like an upper class lady. She drew out the string, further out than me. Eventually she stopped at an indeterminable point, and ran her fingers lightly over the area, back and forth. Her eyes were closed, but I dared not try and take advantage of the fact.

"Fine," she eventually said. "You may live for now. Do not take this to mean that I've accepted your story."

"Glad to hear it. Now if you don't mind, I've got a few questions for you."

The glare came back, but without the implied threat behind it, I wouldn't be cowed. It's easy to tell when someone's got no experience holding people hostage. The Sister might've been smart, but she missed the little tricks and tells that make up the game played between prisoner and guard. By guaranteeing my life and putting importance on it, she'd practically given me free license to go wild.

I kept up the pace before she could shoot me down. "How about names, first? I give you mine, you give me yours, and we can stop making faces. The owls are getting nervous enough to kick us out of the bar if we don't finish these drinks and start acting friendly."

She took another sip. I wasn't sure if the resulting grimace was directed at me or if it just tasted that bad. Probably a mix of both.

"Jeanne." She parted with it like a miser letting go of his precious dollar bills.

"Like the one that got burnt at stake?"

"Yes."

"I don't suppose apologizing on behalf of the English will make things any better?"

"For you? Not likely."

I'll admit it. I was starting to get a bit desperate. Handling the ruins of ancient civilizations and ancient death-traps is easy. Trying to negotiate with an angry woman is just asking for it. "You know this doesn't _have_ to be an awkward, confrontational mess. We had a fine conversation earlier, didn't we?"

She smirked. It was something. "As I seem to recall, that ended with you running with your tail between your legs after trying to court me for some insane reason. While completely at my mercy, I might add."

"I'd say a guy would be insane if he _didn't_ try to nab a beauty like you." I meant it, too.

"Well, you're a bit late for that. If you want to challenge him to a fight, he's upstairs." Some bite to this one, but at least she wasn't using teeth this time.

"I'll settle for watching from afar. Unless you want to do business."

She didn't take the bait. Instead, Jeanne finally succumbed to the heavy atmosphere and smooth jazz, slipping off her heavy cloak and setting it on her lap. She'd neglected to wear the habit, instead taking up a military uniform I didn't recognize, but which was obviously meant for the fairer sex.

"That wasn't a good idea," I said. "These people probably haven't seen a real woman in months, if not years."

Apparently my words were amusing to her on some level. "Is this your first time in Cairo, Scribe? It is a city like any other. Hundreds ply their trade on the streets and find willing customers around every corner. For every soldier that comes here to fight, a young girl arrives to do battle in her own way."

"You're not disgusted?" I'd certainly have expected much less mild reaction from a member of the clergy.

"People are people," she said, draping her discarded cloak across the empty stool to her left. I'd have expected that lack of shame from Moriah, but not from a frail, sheltered nun. "I can deal with them. I cannot deal with this humidity. Besides, if anything else happens, I will have support."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, but I can't keep all these meatheads off of you, especially not when they're all packing heat. In case you haven't noticed, the scales aren't very balanced tonight."

Jeanne barely looked at me as she closed her eyes and stretched her bare arms. "Who said anything about you?"

I glanced to my right. The drunk soldier wasn't there anymore. In his place was the bandaged Arab, nursing a glass of water and pointedly not looking at me. So the gang wasn't dead yet.

"Abdul?"

He grunted an affirmation.

"Listen mate, I know a guy that regrows limbs."

"Speak to me again, I shoot you."

Not an especially talkative fellow, that one.

"What information do you have to contribute?" Before I could get the conversation going, the Sister spun it back onto the proper track. Was it because she remembered that I'd hurt her allies? Certainly, the small amount of warmth that had crept into her voice was no longer present. "No distractions, please."

I grabbed for the glass to bid for time, but it was empty. I waved over the bartender and tapped the glass for a refill. He grunted and poured more in after I slid a few more coins over to him.

"Well, you told me earlier that I had no idea what I was looking for," I said after a long sip, during which I collected my thoughts. "Now I'm a bit more informed."

"Your source?"

"Personal experience. Twice."

"Of course," she grimaced. "It was you people that woke it up in the first place."

I shook my head. "I ain't too sure about that, and you shouldn't be so quick to point fingers. But it's irrelevant. I saw that thing up close, and I've got every moment stored in here." I tapped my head for emphasis. "The library's open for business, but you'll have to make a deposit before checking anything out."

She turned up her nose as if I'd been cooked well done instead of medium rare. "I am not divulging information without a similar contribution. Besides, merely the fact that you fought that thing twice and survived relatively intact tells me most of what I wish to know. If it couldn't kill you, it won't be able to put a scratch on me."

"Well then, wouldn't you say that's a good enough contribution from my side?"

She stiffened. I got her. As she contemplated her next move, the music changed from the familiar tones of American Jazz to a more local variety. A guitar wove its way into the mix, leading the rest of the instruments in a twanging, brooding melody.

I sweetened the deal. "Contract."

"Huh?"

"We'll outline a contract. Geas. Unbreakable without some nasty side effects. Is that good enough for you?" I withdrew a paper and a pen from within my coat, scribbled my signature on the bottom in one of the two blank spaces, and slid it across the counter. It stopped against Jeanne's empty cup.

While she perused it, I took the time to scan the joint. Several eyes were on me. More still had a head of blonde hair in sight. These people were the ones that hadn't gone to fight on the frontlines. Most were running on a combination of giddy relief and excitement over having less competition in an emptied city, with a tinge of guilt for not being able to help their countries. In that state, I wouldn't put anything past anyone.

"Acceptable," the Sister said before passing me back the contract, unsigned. "I have no need to enter into a blasphemous pact with one of your kind. However, since your signing of it represents a willingness to commit, I'll consider it a promise to be kept."

I nodded. "Now we're talking."

There was much talking. And drinking. Lots of drinking. I made sure to stay within my limits, and Jeanne took small enough sips that she was able to nurse a second glass for the remainder of our stay. Information exchanged hands with a minimum of fuss. I told my story, barring a few details, and in return I got a promise, an address, and a few tidbits that Archibald likely knew from the beginning.

It wasn't much, but the little there was had me wishing I could get drunk faster.

This is big. Bigger than me, bigger than any gripes I might have, and possibly even bigger than the whole damn war. Even the Sister and the Church recognize that. A truce is a rare thing, but I'll not refuse one after all the trouble this particular foe's given me. Even if she isn't exactly my friend, there's one less enemy to deal with.

I'll admit now that I'm not a nice person. I came here solely because my livelihood was on the line, and I've been betting it ever since.

But that ends here. Someone's gotta step up to the plate. Archibald is a selfish bastard who'd willingly kill off the whole city if he thinks it would help him get ahead.

He's also the only one who can stop this thing in its tracks.

Moriah can't manage him. She's young, foolish, and too inexperienced to throw her weight around. Knowing that she's been colluding with the Church this whole time changes none of that.

So it'll have to be me.

"You're putting a lot on the shoulders of someone you don't trust," I said.

We split apart for a moment. The world spun, and our feet tapped out a hundred different rhythms on the wooden floor. When we came together, the response was immediate. "It is of little importance to me," Jeanne said. Her voice had lost its hard edge. I'd like to think that she'd finally stopped thinking of how to best get away with murdering me, but with those Church types you can never be too sure. "After you deliver your message to the alchemist, our deal will be completed. This is simply advice. Think of it as a sign of gratitude, because I won't be granting much else. Of your party, Lysander's skills would best applied to the task at hand." Her fingers slipped into mine and I led us in a less crowded direction.

She leaned back, and my hand supported her. I felt no weight. If I'd let go, she would have been borne by that guardian of hers instead. "Wouldn't that be necessary knowledge?" I asked.

Jeanne looked back at me through lidded eyes. "Not to me. Archibald isn't a key component of the plan; he is merely another form of insurance should you decide to go your own way."

She came back up, and my hand followed. The music changed, speeding up and forcing our pace to increase. "You called him Lysander earlier. Is there a connection I'm missing?"

Jeanne spun. Her skirt rippled outwards, and for a moment our contact was limited to a few small points of contact. Then it was done, and the dance continued. "We have met once before, briefly. I doubt he remembers it. I was young and foolish, so the memory remains."

"You're still young."

"You're still foolish."

We split apart for a moment. As if the Red Sea had parted, soldiers passed between us. My eyes didn't waver; neither did hers. I took the first step forward and she followed. Our hands greeted each other once more. "How do you know?" I broached the final question. "I'm in no way obligated to do this. In fact, it risks my life and payment. How do you know I won't betray you immediately?"

The next song was a slow one. Jeanne leaned her head on my shoulder as the distance between our bodies vanished. Yet I couldn't relax. Instead, my body stiffened. The weight was still gone. I wasn't embracing a clueless young girl, but a steeled knight.

"Because you are a fool," she whispered into my ear. I could almost taste the French accent. "I've begun to understand you. A heretic you may be, but that misplaced loyalty of yours will carry you where it wishes. As for the reason behind it… I cannot read your soul. Why don't you ask that book in your head? Perhaps the answer is there."

The song couldn't have ended soon enough.

I excused myself first. It had nothing to do with the glares I was getting from Abdul, or the deep shuddering that had built up in my bones and refused to stop.

The last thing I saw before the doors closed behind me was a smiling woman. She blew me a mocking kiss as I lost sight of her. I'd almost prefer her as an enemy rather than an ally. At least then I wouldn't feel like a puppet whose strings are available for anyone to tug.

As if to try and cheer me up, the night wind played a melancholy tune. The moon stared down at me, fat and full from all the death and destruction. I expect it'll only lessen once all of this bloodshed is over. Except it won't be over. According to the alchemists, there are still years and millions of lives to go before this war ends.

The walk back was uneventful. I almost wish it hadn't been.

It was peaceful enough that I could reflect on some things. When there's nothing around to keep them in line, thoughts tend to wander. And if you wander without direction, you might run into a truth that's better off left hidden.

Why? Why am I going to all this trouble? Why am I risking my neck for no reason? I couldn't stop the thoughts from spinning around.

At first I wasn't sure. I thought maybe the answer would come to me after re-reading the old entries. But somehow, it wasn't a difficult decision to make.

I know now. I know exactly why I'm doing this. It's not for money, karma, or to save the world. It's not because of that young woman, or that old man. It's definitely not to save my own skin.

I do this so that one day, when my first-born child reads this story and inherits my legacy, it can know that its father did not flee when duty came calling.

I opened the door of our temporary hideout after passing through the irritating maze of bounded fields, only to come face to face with Archibald. He sat at a dusty table, smoking a pipe in silence and staring at the various bottles lining the walls.

His eyes met mine. He took a puff and exhaled slowly, letting the smoke trickle out.

"I don't suppose you would tell me what you've been doing?" he asked. "Or why there's alcohol on your breath?"

"I could," I replied. "But I'm not a child to be chastised, and you're not my father, so there's no obligation to answer."

"We will have words, Scribe."

"Yep. There's some stuff you'll need to answer for. But first I'll have my sleep. You should get yours, too. I know how high maintenance you people tend to be."

He didn't stop me as I went downstairs.

I almost wished he had. Then I remembered the headache.

One last note before this entry ends.

On its own, our foe isn't particularly dangerous. Yes, memory erasure is a troublesome side effect of its true ability, but we've largely negated that advantage. If you take everything else away, it's just a rather weak Dead Apostle. Twice now we've faced it, and twice we've survived. If nothing else, that speaks for how ineffective Aten has been.

The problem comes with that prophecy. A punch doesn't have to be particularly strong if it's hitting you where it hurts. All one needs to do is knock a single stone out of place and the whole mountain will collapse. I'd continue with the analogies, but they're making my head ache even more.

It has to be the pyramids. That's where Aten's power lies sealed. Jeanne agrees that the top priority is preventing his access to the location. Policing them would be difficult at the best of times, but with several conflicting factions sniffing around on top of a panicked military, the chaos is too great to control. One creative vampire with a tendency to go unnoticed could slip past our guard easily. If he reclaims his power, we won't be fighting a winning battle.

That is, if we didn't come up with a way to catch him in the act.

I won't be recording the exact plan here. If someone manages to siphon memories from my Record again, he could realize the truth prematurely. Instead, I've written them down on a separate piece of paper and purged my own memories of any specifics to keep the information secure.

One thing, though, I will elaborate upon: Aten.

Decay.

That's not the exact word, but it is close enough. I know little of the actual concept. Supposedly it's rooted in science, being related to something about moving towards a state of chaos, or the heat lost in a reaction.

In this context, it merely means the irreversible dissipation of order, form and function.

Memories? We were fools to think it would stop at that. The consumption of memories was merely a first step. It's said that animals can sense an earthquake hours before it occurs. They feel minute vibrations in the ground, signs too minute for humans to detect. Here's one more comparison.

Killing memories and eating their corpses is a mere prelude to the earthquake. He does it without thinking, merely by existing. Occasionally, like in our battle, Aten managed to focus that trait of his, but it was still painfully limited. If he is fully revived, flesh will melt away from bone and any living thing within his range will experience as many as ten lifetimes in one second.

In this case, the full range would have a radius of about two hundred kilometres.

The pieces to this puzzle are falling in place, but there are still questions to be asked, and answers to be found if they have not already decayed. Who is Aten? Who sealed him? How did he escape his seal?

I'll find out. Archibald will know. Archibald _has_ to know. I'll beat the facts out of him if I have to.

Tomorrow.

No more lies. No more secrets.

I only hope I can handle the truth.


	12. Seventh Entry (Part One)

I dreamed last night.

Most people do. I'm told it's a regular occurrence, especially after a traumatic or otherwise significant experience. Less common is someone remembering a dream after waking up. They tend to slip away like thrashing fish, leaving behind only frustration. The best one could do is retain a vague recollection that melts like ice in the desert sun.

I didn't remember last night's dreams.

The Record did.

I was slightly intoxicated, and must have forgotten to deactivate the automatic recording before falling asleep. It captured every single thought that passed through my mind during the night and transcribed it into words.

Except sometimes, words cannot fully describe an experience. How does one explain a smell in terms of sight? How can the shape and texture of a fruit be properly conveyed using only colours and emotions? Almost all of what I later read was gibberish, akin to what an illiterate child would produce with a dictionary and an overactive imagination.

The rest was… disturbing.

Names, repeated until they became simple collections of vowels with no greater significant. They blended into a mass of text that held no single meaning, but when looked upon somehow managed to convey a sense of deep foreboding. Nightmares are also dreams.

I normally refrain from beginning my entries with such irrelevant tangents, but I know of no other way to begin this one. Much has happened, and yet it feels as if we've accomplished nothing. Tomorrow is the end, one way or another.

An end to the bad dream.

Waking was harder than falling asleep, but we must have managed it one point, because my first recollection was of crackling and snapping, of sizzling fat, and of a piercing sun that Moriah hid behind moth-balled curtains when it became clear that none of us could tolerate it so early in the morning. Thankfully, that was one luxury our temporary abode hadn't lost.

Archie cooked, if we can even call it that. The man did things with a piece of metal and some borrowed rations that could be entered into the annals of True Magic. The end result was an unholy mixture of eggs, beef, baked beans, brown bread, and Spam. It wasn't exactly a full breakfast, but no one complained other than Archibald himself, clearly dissatisfied with the low-quality ingredients. I could've just gone out and bought some for us, but I didn't dare be the voice of reason when was in such a temper. He was the only one who helped himself to the tin of Vegemite. I still can't stomach the stuff.

Breakfast started and ended in relative silence. Several times I attempted to start up a conversation, but Moriah replied with hesitant one-word answers and Archie only looked away from his food to dispense glares and thin mints in my direction. It was only when we were finished that he spoke.

"We are going to the pyramids," he said. "To find this power our mutual foe seeks and claim it."

It was a simple plan. Too simple, one might say, and then get smacked across the face for it. Simple plans are often the firmest. Archibald knew that much, even with his penchant for theatrics and dubious hiring practices.

Any conversation we'd promised the previous night was thus delayed further. We packed, abandoned the temporary shelter, and strode across the streets cloaked from suspicion. The sun beat down on my back, making the weaponry I carried feel several times heavier, but Archie and Moriah didn't even seem to notice. Neither did any of the soldiers and citizens walking the roads. There was a restless energy present, as if they knew instinctively that their lives hung in the balance.

The city was a different creature during the day. The best word I can use to describe it would be _full_. We initially travelled along the poorer outskirts rather than the more modernized interior, so the streets were packed with people of all creeds and colours, each on their own business. Soldiers were much less common now that the majority were fighting and dying in El Alamein, but the few remaining one moved in pairs or groups, some speaking in hushed tones about some gripes with commanding officers, others reminiscing about home, and others merely enjoying Cairo like the clueless tourists they were.

On some streets, stalls peddled foods and souvenirs and soft drinks, and their owners competed to see who could make the most noise and thus draw the most customers, most of them unwitting soldiers who fell for ridiculously high prices without batting an eye. Blocks away, fancy restaurants and open-air cafés catered to a decidedly less wealthy customer base than usual, resulting in poor Privates and Corporals from the country cheerfully dining on caviar and other fancy foods I don't know the names of. Even further in, apartments rose to the heavens and the streets were packed with cars and buses in a way that reminded me of home. Apparently Maxwell's death wasn't common knowledge.

And to think that it might be twice as busy without a war going on next door.

We had to rent another jeep, which wasn't easy. This one was Allied in origin with the markings filed off and most of the buttons broken, painted over with a child's care and offered by a toothless, grinning Englishman who dressed like a local, eyed me like a juicy morsel, and sat in an alley sipping on a bottle of _something_. Archibald refused to take the time to go to the more modern part of the city in search of transport, so it was this or nothing. I managed to haggle the price down more than half and was about to buy it when Moriah stepped in, halved the number again by mentioning all of the various repairs the jeep had undergone to be usable, and took the deal on the spot. There wasn't much reason for the compromise, since Archibald could practically conjure money out of thin air to get a better vehicle, but I suppose old habits die hard.

A shame about the other car, though. It's probably melting in the sun back at the Valley of Kings, completely forgotten. The payment on it will be _horrible_.

Archie didn't say anything as we slipped through the city. None of the soldiers cared to notice one of their own refurbished vehicles driving by, and we didn't care to inform them. Moriah drove in silence, with only the roar of the engine providing any entertainment. I almost wished there were some dunes nearby, so I could hear her innocent laugh again as she guided us to fly over the sands.

We took twists and turns that made little sense, moving along the streets in some kind of pattern that could only be understood by one who could predict the future and plan around it in four dimensions. We had to cut right through the middle of the city to get to Giza, and it was quite a trip.

At first we saw only tall buildings, wide roads, and crowded sidewalks. Despite the war going on, the city burst with restrained life. Jet-black automobiles that no doubt held officials or other affluent aficionados shared the streets with horse-drawn carriages and locals on sputtering motorbikes, speeding or leisurely coasting towards their destinations. Entire families travelled the sidewalks together, holding their children close as more dubious folks passed by and bursting into arguments the moment a rosy-cheeked boy or girl spotted a store selling a new kind of candy they absolutely _needed_ to try.

I saw a soldier being propped up by his buddy as they both stumbled home; he looked like a dead man until I saw him fall to his knees and release all the alcohol and food he'd consumed during the night into an open drain. On the opposite side of the street, a pack of finely dressed dames tittered and giggled at the sight as they sipped on expensive fruit cocktails delivered to them by even better dressed waiters. Above it all, grand hotels proudly displayed their names, opening doors to whoever could pay the undoubtedly high entry prices. Moriah took in the whole vista with one look, momentarily smiling at my expression, but Archibald didn't even spare it a glance.

Cairo reminds me of London. Not from appearance, but something more immaterial, harder to grasp. They could almost be sister cities. They share the same _life_, a similar heartbeat. A pair of siblings, separated by several seas.

The dream ended abruptly. All too soon, we reached our destination.

Even when we could see the details on the rocks that made up the pyramids of Giza, it still felt like we hadn't left Cairo. The pyramids weren't a silent place like the Valley of Kings had been; they were a tourist attraction and local feature. Back home, Big Ben was the same. A spark of history buried under man-made mountains and made mundane. When you pass by something every day on your way to work, any magic it might contain will inevitably fade from memory and become part of the background.

For a few people, there was still magic in these old rocks. Today, though, we were the only visitors.

There was a distinct lack of tension when we finally stopped the car at the end of the crude road. The pyramids were certainly a grand affair, rising towards the skies as testaments to the power of Man, but for some reason I was distinctly unimpressed by them. Even the other nearby structures failed to excite. The Sphinx was little more than an overly large statue with features long since worn away. The air of the mundane managed to boil the ancient achievement down to nothing, as if they were ordinary houses rather than miracles of craftsmanship.

For once, it seems Archibald and I were on the same page.

"Hmph." He scanned the vista and took in the sights. "This place is boring."

"Bit of a quick assumption to make, isn't it?" I agreed with him, of course, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't play Devil's Advocate. "We've only just gotten here."

"No," he said firmly. "I can tell. It is empty. Empty of anything that might interest us."

"Did we not give you a variation on those words before you discovered our minds were being manipulated?" Moriah spoke up. She was too busy paying attention to our surroundings to truly get into the budding discussion, but she still kept an eye and a chunk of her brain attentive to it.

"My mind is clear, girl," Archibald growled. He opened the door of the car and stepped out onto the sands, finding firm footing where none should have existed. "Can you not feel it? Or rather, the lack of it? Compared to the Valley of Kings, it is almost worthless. These crude polyhedrons are not tombs of God-Kings. That statue holds no significance other than its size. There is no _mystery_ here."

And then she knew. "Ah." Nothing more needed to be said.

It all boils down to secrets. Magi are enamored with them. To most the unknown is something to be feared; for us it is a cruel lover we cannot help but pursue even as it dances away from us. It is in our very nature, as those who seek the greatest secret of all. And mystery is a concept. Something tangible yet immaterial, that can be felt but never truly held. We are attuned to it, some more than others. Archibald is a sensitive one; I hadn't realized the origin of my own unease until he gave it a name.

For all the sand and ugliness of the Valley, it had mystery, and plenty of it. Things unknown. Things yet to be known. Things that would never be known at all. The Giza Necropolis, by comparison, had seen exponentially more traffic. All of the unknown was leeched away over the years as archaeologists, robbers, and tourists plundered it, until all that remained was an empty shell devoid of worth.

A depressing place. I was already thinking up excuses to leave.

"Even so, he will be here." Moriah had gathered up her thoughts during the pause. "The prediction was especially clear. Tomorrow night, this place will change."

"I suppose." Archibald wasn't willing to argue that point. "Very well. You have until the sun sets. Investigate as you wish, Guide."

Moriah shot me a look. I could read the question on her face, but instead of answering, I nodded. "Be seeing you. I'll be there when you need a pair of shoulders to sit on."

There wasn't much to be said. She left without fanfare, trudging alone towards the humongous pyramids, a tiny, shrinking figure put up against an unspeakably large foe. Neither she nor I have the kind of presence that can beat back such melancholy. Archibald does, but he only uses it to quell resistance and express irritation.

"I will begin," Archibald said once she was out of range. He'd set up his camp some distance from the road, where he could keep watch on our vehicle and any newcomers, but was still far enough away to avoid detection instantly. "Your conduct thus far has been less than satisfactory on many levels. Yesterday's truancy was a footnote in that short history." He spoke like a schoolteacher chastising an unruly student.

I hated school.

"Last night was as much for your sake as it was mine, _boss_. Sometimes a man needs to unwind, or he'll turn out like you."

"Have you no respect for your betters?" He was genuinely curious. For all his supposed wisdom, Archibald truly didn't understand.

I wanted to tell him off even more, but he was already getting worked up. In the desert, I stood no chance of stopping any rash execution he could enact. "We disagree on things," I said, not looking at him but at the pyramids, hoping for a glimpse of the one person here I didn't hate. "Such as what exactly makes one person superior to another."

"My brother-."

"Was an overconfident idiot. You said as much." If it wasn't so bloody hot, I'd have lit up a cigarette. I wouldn't even have needed matches. Just holding it out would be enough. The sun would fry the thing in a moment, just like it was frying me while Archibald sat under his umbrella playing with a glass of wine for some ungodly reason. I'd have been certain he pilfered it from the pub, if it weren't for the fact that he's precisely the kind of person I see bringing such a useless thing with him all the way to Egypt.

"I need to be certain of your intentions. Unlike him, I am willing to doubt you, even bound by that contract. There are ways around promises."

"And I don't know any of them." Moriah was probably getting tired. Even a native would start sweating under this heat. Even someone wearing something most would consider a bathing suit.

"You were to aid me in accomplishing my goals. Not yours. Not hers. Not anyone else's."

"And stopping this destruction isn't your goal?" She was probably waiting for me. Wondering what Archibald was saying. A young imagination could come up with an awful lot of horrible things.

"The goal is to fulfill the Vice Director's request and make sure I receive his reward. If I defeat Aten and you aren't there to verify the truth, you will be of no use to me."

"What else would I be doing?"

"Defeating him yourself. Conspiring to steal that reward from under my nose. Caring for the life of a hired helper instead of the mission."

I looked back at Archibald. He wasn't drinking his wine. His wrinkled hands were folded and resting on his lap. He sat on that flimsy chair, sweating in the shade and staring at the pyramids with a combination of disgust and desire. Had I been wearing the same expression?

"You don't have many friends, do you?" I couldn't hate him in that moment, as much as I wanted to.

His sharp eyes flickered over to me, judging silently. "A magus has no room for such things." He said the words deliberately, as if they'd been hammered into him over and over again until they could only ever be Truth, unapproachable and irrefutable.

"Allies, then. Or maybe you'd say the same thing. But even now, if you don't see us as being on your side, you'll never understand."

"Use and be used." More canned words.

"We're not _tools_ to be bent to someone's will," I countered. I wanted to punch him, but I'd just be beating on an old man too set in his ways to change. "Do you think you can just withhold vital information because you're supposedly the only one who knows how to use it? That pride of yours is worse than your brother's greed."

"I am the lecturer here," he countered, a spark of rage flaring in those tired eyes at my remark. Was it because I mentioned his brother, or insulted him? "I am the Head of my House, and a Lord of the Clock Tower. _You_ are a dead-beat, living out one day at a time as your life slowly ticks away, content with being absolutely _useless to the world_!"

"And useless to you?"

A memory I'd thought lost came back to me from that place thoughts go to die. An ancient, decrepit man sat on a rocking chair, spittle flying from a mouth filled with false teeth. The chair's gentle back-and-forth motion contrasted his jerking rage. His anger was a last, fraying veil between me and the broken man who had nothing left. Grandpa had died the very next day, never to be at peace.

Archibald, who could've at that moment been mistaken for that same man, took a different path. He clamped down on his next words, an orderly mind pushing back the rant he'd been about to dispense. The magus didn't bother to reply to my question. Instead, he reached within the bag at his feet and withdrew a familiar book, heavy with annotations and loose slips of paper. He flipped it open to a page near the beginning.

"Gods do not die easily," Lysander read. "Those who are not slain can only be forgotten."

"But-!"

"And _when_ a God is forgotten, it does not die. It merely sinks, deeper and deeper, into the place where lost things go. It slips through the cracks in this World, and is dissolved by the Truth that awaits it there. For a God will not truly die even if it is killed, but it can be forgotten even if it is remembered."

He turned the page. Archibald's voice had softened, like that of a parent reading a bedtime story to their child. He saw only the treasure in his hands.

"But in that time when Gods reigned and memory was infallible, how does one rid themselves of a God? How does a nation without a Hero to weave Legend throw off a Divine force of near-limitless power when it cannot be killed?"

He removed a dusty photograph from the page and held it out, not meeting my eye. I took it. A familiar symbol assailed me: a disk releasing solid rays of light to bless the ground below.

"Sleep. Lull it to sleep with weapons and magic and mystery. Separate it from its power. Entomb the sleeping God beneath the earth, strike it from the history books, and wait for the passage of time to do what Man cannot. For even in the Age of Gods, the Age of Man was always visible on the horizon. The seers of the past saw more clearly than the seers of the present. They saw the day when all Gods would fade from memory, when the sleeping ones would take their final journey to the Truth without ever stirring from their slumber. And today, on this day, all those Gods are gone. We live in a World where only that which is grounded in earth can live on earth. As the heavens fell, so too did their rulers. Our greatest weapon is ignorance. Our greatest strength is the ability to forget."

"But those who live below, those who could not become Divine… those monsters remain, still slumbering to this day, waiting for a chance to wake and share their nightmares with the waking world. They wait, and when their wait is over, they shall make Man remember."

I handed Archibald the photo. Almost lovingly he returned it to its original position, and closed the heavy book. "My grandfather spent a good deal of his life studying my target," he said. "Though of course it's no proper Deity, you may think of it as a something that could have become a Divine Spirit. From recent observations, it can be concluded that this one was originally a Dead Apostle. How it managed to obtain divine power is something that can only be speculated, but the reality is that it's no longer a simple vampire, nor is it a true God. Until now, its existence was a… less-than-popular theory."

"But he supported it anyway."

"Yes." Archibald carefully returned the book to its protective covering. "He disappeared years ago, searching for Aten in this land. He never returned. I doubt I'll need to explain the rest. It will suffice to say that my motives in this venture are a great deal more personal than yours."

I didn't have the will to challenge him.

Archibald seemed to collect himself. He stared me in the eye. "Scribe," he said. "Strike this conversation from your records. I've told you the gist of it. What remains in this book is knowledge my grandfather gathered himself and for his family. It guided me here, but now its limit has been reached. Alexander knew this creature's power was present in this place, but he could not conceive a way to reach it. We shall finish his journey today. Now go. There is work to be done."

I wasn't going to get much more out of him, and he knew it.

I switched tactics. "This search might as well be a waste of time," I said. "Does snooping around this empty place help us any? Aten will still arrive tomorrow. We should be preparing to meet him here."

"You can be assured that preparations are being made," Archibald waved me off. "I have a few ideas that will suffice. If you have plans of your own, either voice them or handle it yourself."

Yep. Same old Archie.

There was no use arguing any longer. I'd already pushed my luck further than it had any right to go. You don't need precognition to know antagonizing a Lord is a bad idea, especially one who's on a personal vendetta.

"Cheer up, Lysander." My parting words were brief. "At least you'll be on your own. No one to betray you now."

He didn't even bother to throw my remark back at me. I left the man staring at the knowledge his grandfather had gathered, believing there might be something in those pages for him.

Finding Moriah wasn't difficult. She left me a clear trail, and with no one else in the area to foul it up, we met at the base of the largest pyramid, opposite from where we'd started. It took me too long just to circle around the blasted thing.

I found my Guide sitting on one of the worn down giant steps, staring blankly forward at the desert, looking like life had dealt her a sorry two-pair.

"Aren't you supposed to be investigating?" I asked.

She blinked and the light returned to her eyes. Moriah looked down and saw me, then cracked a weak smile. "There is little point," she said. "We both know this place will not divulge the few secrets it still keeps so easily."

"It's the thought that counts, ain't it?" I tilted my head to the side, avoiding her gaze. The height difference was almost ideal, but I was still a bit too tall for what I had in mind.

"Yes, and I _have_ been thinking." A slight shrug of the shoulders. I only now noticed how muted her body language was. Not because of training, but simply because it hadn't been allowed to develop naturally.

"What's the prediction?"

"The forecast is sunny," she said, not meaning it. "Not a cloud in sight."

"I'm overjoyed, really."

There wasn't no reply. She had lost herself again, staring into an unknown future that might never come to pass.

"What's it like?" I asked. "Seeing what's yet to come."

That snapped her out of it. The girl looked at me quizzically, as if she hadn't expected that question from me at all. "It is…" She paused, searching for the best way to say it. Watching someone who normally knew everything at a loss for words was fun, for the few seconds it lasted. I took the opportunity to jump up and take a seat next to her on the smooth rock.

"Frustrating," Moriah decided, leaning her head on my shoulder. "It is very frustrating. You wouldn't understand."

Whenever someone tells me I won't understand something, I know they're just itching to keep going. "Try me," I said. "Can't be that bad."

"Take a cherished memory. Something that means the world to you."

Once, in third grade, I hit a home run against a kid who bet me a dollar I wouldn't be able to knock it out of the park. I never got to spend that dollar because he beat me up afterwards and took it back.

"Now cut out everything that matters. Remove the events leading up to it, the people who participated, and the result. Slice that memory into pieces and lock them all behind different doors.

I did.

"What remains is a feeling. The feeling you had, without context or explanation. The idea behind the memory is there, but you cannot put it into words."

I was happy about something. Triumphant. But about what?

"That's the beginning. Now, take that undefined emotion and draw it. Give it form. Shape it into an event that fits, without a single guideline. Use all the techniques you have. Estimate. Calculate probabilities of certain events occurring. Sculpt each facet as much as possible with the little information you have."

It was nothing. Just a fuzzy chunk of glory in the vague shape of a child holding a sword and wearing a crown upon his head, holding up his plunder while an even more fearsome monster reared up behind him.

"That memory is the future. You can make of it what you will, try to refine it further or guess based on context, but you won't get any more of it. Now, try to base your actions on that estimate. Peer into the ocean, hoping the truth at the bottom will come into more focus. The world rests on your shoulders."

I stopped imagining. It wasn't going to go anywhere good.

"What do you see?" I asked. The girl leaning on me shuddered a bit.

"Regret," Moriah said. "For you and I, only regret. For tomorrow… nothing. Perhaps even the future has been erased. It's all hollow. Gutted and sewn up. Neatly packaged but completely devoid of life."

What could I do to assuage such depression? I'm no miracle worker. I've no experience in combatting despair that arises from certainty rather than paranoia or wonder. There are no treatments for the future. You can't drink some tea and hope it goes away. I'm actually happy that I can't do what Moriah does. It doesn't sound like much fun.

At the same time, I couldn't let her down. Especially not when she'd chosen me of all people to look up to.

So I changed the subject. Some problems are best faced by running away from them before they crush you flat under a hundred tons of deadly premonitions.

"Y'know, speaking of neatly packaged… how's that boyfriend of yours doing?"

Judging by how Moriah stiffened at my words, it worked. "Who-?"

"Blondie. Little Boy Blue. The Prince Charming."

She wasn't leaning on me anymore. Now that cute little face stared at me like I'd just dangled a dead rat before it. "That is not funny," Moriah said. "Alfons is merely an acquaintance. Furthermore, I fail to see the point of your request." Ah, defaulting to strictly formal speech. Eventually she'll learn how to stop being so easy to read, but for now I'm leveraging that as far as I can.

"Just simple curiosity," I lied. "I _am_ a British citizen, you know. Gotta keep an eye on the enemy."

"And yet I've never met someone so American."

"I try. A location is fine if you don't have it. I just want to make sure he's out of the country. Those Germans are slimy bastards. Wouldn't want to be stabbed in the back when I least expected it."

She wasn't buying it. "Please don't lie," Moriah asked, suddenly abandoning the frosty approach. "I trust you, so… please." She was horrible at this. Most gals have mastered puppy dog eyes by first grade, but she wasn't saccharine enough. Too raw. Too genuine and honest. It made her plea a hundred times more effective than it should've been.

"...just a hunch. Don't know if it's part of looking ahead like you mentioned, but I tend to go with my gut when I'm unsure. Right now it's saying that kid's too young and foolish to give up after a setback like that. Especially if he's got something to prove. He'll be in the city for sure."

"He is no threat to you," she said quickly. The distance between us had widened in more ways than one. "I know Alfons well enough to be certain. Even as a child, he was too soft to go far as a magus."

"But he's still here, isn't he?"

"Well… yes. Though I still don't understand what you're thinking with this."

Couldn't help it. I grinned. Cute or not, seeing someone bewildered when you derail their train of thought is always satisfying. I wasn't gonna wait around and let myself stay down just because Archibald was being Archibald and Moriah was being Moriah, and I was dragging her up with me.

"Come on." I jumped down onto the sand and spread my arms with a flourish. "I'll catch you."

A small giggle from the girl who could only see despair and regret in the future. It was a start. "It isn't even a meter. I'll be fine."

"Ah, but you won't! Because you'd be missing an opportunity to be carried around like a princess."

"A _what_?"

"Please, Milady. There's no time. I've lured Archie the Dragon to sleep with tea and biscuits, but unless we make haste to our trusty steed, we shall face certain doom! I can explain everything on the way out."

"You're being so very _silly_."

Still, she jumped.

Light. I could carry this load for hours.

"Can we get to where he is by car?"

Her voice was small, even nestled close to my chest. "Y-yes."

"You drive, okay?"

"…yes."

Archibald didn't realize a thing. I couldn't have planned the heist better if I was a career criminal.

We circled around the pyramid and made our way back through the empty complex. The lack of tourists was to our advantage; no one got in our way, and Moriah was free to stop every so often and deposit a small trinket in some corner or under some stone. I didn't ask what they meant; the answer was obvious enough, fitting in with the plan Jeanne and I had discussed. Archibald was sunning himself and poring over that book of his, and we'd parked the jeep far enough that we could get into it and drive off without him being any wiser. Our Magus expected us to be at the pyramids all day, but a short lunch break wouldn't matter.

Moriah obliged my wish and revved up the engine, sending us rocketing through the cramped streets of Cairo at a blistering ten kilometres per hour. She didn't laugh as she had done when driving us to the Valley of Kings, likely because there was too much to be concerned over.

"Now, about that explanation?"

"You don't forget easily."

I thought I saw a smirk on Moriah's face, but it must've been the light reflecting on the glass of the windshield. "Neither do I let obvious excuses stand. Why the sudden interest in Alfons? Why now?"

"Do you remember the first time we saw Aten?"

"The coffin?"

"The divination room."

A pause. Was she hesitating, or simply trying to avoid the memory? The car slowed down. "…yes," Moriah said, turning her face away from mine. "At least, I recall fragments. Pain. Wordless questions. I did not give any answers."

"You and I got roughed up," I began to explain. "We barely escaped from there with our lives. Your friend, though… he didn't have a scratch on him. And my Record has him speaking with the thing. Not screaming. Talking."

She took a turn, bringing us past a stand selling strips of grilled meat on bread. "Are you saying he managed to communicate with Aten?" To her credit, she did a good job of hiding her disbelief.

I soldiered on. "All we heard was meaningless garbage, but that kid managed to get an undead monstrosity to speak to him. I'm saying he told it something, and I want to know _what_."

It was as if I'd just informed her of a death in the family. Moriah's fingers tightened around the steering wheel. She kept her eyes forward.

"I'm not gonna torture the guy. Just have a few questions for him."

She nodded, almost imperceptibly.

"Very well."

The jeep only needed a light dose of illusions to pass for normal at our destination, and an ill-fitting soldier's uniform was my disguise for the day. Moriah looked too small in hers, where Jeanne had worn it perfectly.

She'll grow into it eventually.

Our entrance to the military camp was relatively unimpeded. A sleepy soldier waved us through the gate without even asking for identification, and we followed another jeep to the area where we could park. The whole place seemed darker than when we'd passed through it, despite this being broad daylight as opposed to dusk. People rushed from tent to tent, men sat on makeshift chairs and eyed any passerby with suspicion, and papers were scattered about the dusty ground with no one bothering to pick them up. Maxwell's death must not have been made public, but its impact was being felt.

"Archibald opened this city to any magus wanting a bite," I noted. "Now the good guys are wandering around like chickens with their heads chopped off."

Moriah nodded as we jumped out of the van. "When he did what he did, my premonitions strengthened. Somehow, somewhere, the death of that man will come back to haunt us."

There wasn't anything to say. We made our way towards the command tent from where we'd fled. Moriah drew some strange looks, but no one had the energy or will to stop us, though our faces were completely unfamiliar. The tent had been cordoned off, and two guards chatted awkwardly near the entrance, waving around weapons without even bothering to put up a semblance of trigger discipline.

One of them stopped partway through voicing what was either a recipe for quiche or a raunchy joke as he saw us approach. He raised a hand to stop us and then immediately lowered it as he caught my eye. Even my sub-par spell was enough to pacify both of them.

"Have any strangers entered or left this tent in the past twenty-four hours?"

A negative response. Either memory tampering, or no one cared enough to investigate. The object of our interest was elsewhere.

"Mind giving us a pointer? The old noggin's not what it used to be."

I hate hypnosis, but sometimes, I love it.

Our destination was the only building in the camp that couldn't be mistaken for a tent. Prisoners of war usually get shipped off to specialized camps of their own, but Maxwell needed to have somewhere to keep the magi he captured during his tenure as the Second Owner of Cairo. That somewhere held our answers.

We felt it before we saw it. The subtle tinge of layered boundary fields, now slowly drying out without anyone to feed them, kept the premises clear and sent goosebumps down my arms. It was at the edge of the camp, completely unguarded, likely because no soldier would willingly venture there unless explicitly ordered to.

It was a squat, stone thing from outside, but after Moriah deciphered the rather simple traps at the entrance, we found ourselves in a space that would easily fit the same plane I'd flown in on. The ground was rich carpet, softly burning candles on elegantly carved tables released soft scents, and two expertly upholstered sofas completed the few vanities in the otherwise empty room. Even the air cooled dramatically. I was so used to Egypt's unrelenting heat that my body fought the urge to shiver at temperatures that would've been considered ordinary back in London. Moriah, as usual, was nonplussed.

"This is no workshop," she said, eyes scanning the room, pausing on the doorways that adorned the left and right walls of the area, five on each wall. "The boundary extends inwards. Those rooms would be difficult to escape from, even with access to magecraft."

Three of the doors had been knocked off their hinges. Two were splinters, and one had been chewed apart by some kind of large animal. Two more doors hung open. The rest were closed. Above each doorway was a small candleholder, carrying a singular candle. For eight of the doors, including the open and destroyed ones the candles had gone out. The last two, opposite each other, burned with a steady green flame.

"Which one?"

"I am unsure. I can sense life in both, but the field prevents me from distinguishing them."

"Is there any danger?"

"There shouldn't be, but…"

I picked the one on the left and walked over to it, feeling my shoes stain the carpet. The door itself was wood, but a latch near the top allowed me to slide open a small viewing port. A larger one on the bottom was likely for food.

I peeked inside. It was dark, and I smelled the stench of an unwashed body. The room inside had no carpet, and only a metal cot pushed up against one wall for comfort. Maxwell didn't bother to spare as much care for his prisoners as he did for his own comfort.

A body, lying in the shadows and propped up against the far wall, looked up and met my gaze.

I saw red eyes and white hair.

_"Release me,"_ the stranger said in flawless German. _"The Einzbern will pay a generous ransom for my life, but they shall also deliver a fiery vengeance upon you."_

_"Release me, Engländer, or you will die."_


	13. Seventh Entry (Part Two)

I've never taken kindly to being ordered around, least of all by someone with seemingly no awareness of their circumstances.

"Release me, Englishman," the Einzbern repeated, in English this time. "Accept your error and perhaps you shall be spared."

I thought about it for a moment. Those red eyes didn't even blink. I've seen albinos before; this wasn't such a person. Instead of washed out irises and ethereal strands of hair, blood red and snow white pushed away darkness. It was the kind of crimson that'd make a man want to take up poetry just to explain it.

I didn't need to explain a damn thing.

"No."

I shut the latch, cutting off a muffled protest. A weight settled on my back. Moriah peered over to get a better look, resting her chin on my shoulder. "Who was that?" she asked.

"No one important."

The other door held our objective. I traversed the wrecked room and slid open the view port to see a significantly less strange figure splayed out on a mattress thinner than a slice of bread. I couldn't be sure with the poor lighting, but I'd have bet my armory that the boy had been left relatively unharmed. Alfons was even snoring in his sleep. Chalk that one up to British hospitality.

I closed the latch before the prisoner could wake.

"It's him."

She moved to open the door, but my hand on hers prevented that. "Not yet," I explained. The only response I got was an exasperated glare. "I'll be quick. And painless. Promise."

"I'd thought trickery was something you hated."

I laughed. Ah, kids. They come to the most ridiculous conclusions. "Sweetheart, simple ruses like this'll save your hide more often than any magic. Now watch and learn. I got this one from a bloke down in Belgium. It'll have him sweating bullets."

I never got to show her, though.

"Please," Moriah said softly. "Don't. Whatever it is you need to do, do it properly. Alfons is not a bad person. He is soft, too much so for a magus. Getting the information you desire from him will not be difficult, even if you refrain from more unscrupulous methods."

Couldn't laugh at that one.

I slid the piece of metal out of the way. "Hey, kid. Wake up."

His response was some mumbled excuse that might've been German filtered through a few pillowcases of sand. I couldn't have understood it if I was a local.

"What was that? Come back later? Not a problem. I'll see you in a week."

That woke him up. "Wait!" Alfons scrambled out of bed, stumbling over himself and crashing against the door with all the finesse of a killer whale. He felt his way up until I was closer than I'd have liked to be to a pair of blood-shot, squinting eyes.

"Morning."

"It's you," he said, as if I was some kind of messiah rather than a beleaguered Scribe.

"Me, yes. Back off, I need to get a good look at you."

Alfons had been treated fine, as I suspected. A bit thinner than when I'd last seen him, and lacking the several kilos of survival gear, but it was the same scrawny boy I'd saved.

"Are you here to-?"

"Rescue you? That would be jumping to conclusions. Why are you here?" I pushed forward without warning. In his half-asleep state, Alfons would be likely to let something slip without realizing it.

"I got caught," he mumbled. One hand came up to rub the sleep out of one eye, and was soon replaced by another. "I tried to get into the city but someone reported me." The offending accent that likely landed the boy in a jail cell had only gotten thicker with disuse.

"No," I clarified. "Why didn't you go back to Germany?"

"I couldn't go back with empty hands," he said, and then yawned. "I still need to find the Dead One."

I gave Moriah a look. She shrugged. Bloody Krauts. Don't know how to quit while they're ahead.

"You do realize your Scribe and Guide are dead, right? And that you're up against us? I shouldn't need to add that Archibald isn't nearly as nice as I am, or that you got caught more easily than a broke Bruno. There's pushing your luck, and then there's flipping it the bird."

Sadly, my sage advice didn't do squat. The moment I started talking sense his dull eyes sparked with stubborn defiance. He'd probably been given the whole routine several times, and I was just the latest of many semi-responsible voices vying for rationality.

"I need that favour," he insisted. "A true Magus does not fear death."

"If you're a true Magus, I'll eat my gun."

He was about to retort with something, before Moriah pushed me aside and peered through the door. "Alfons," she said, not blinking. "That wasn't a smart thing to do. You told me you were done with this nonsense."

His eyes softened. Both of us had gotten hooked, but the boy didn't even have it in him to put up a decent struggle. "I suppose that makes us both liars," he said.

Perhaps I recorded those thoughts too soon.

It cut deep. I didn't know what kind of drama these two were involved in, and frankly, I didn't care. It was time we got to business. I had no problem with pushing aside the startled girl and steering the conversation in a more profitable direction.

"Oy," I said. "No making the alchemist cry. Now tell me why you're _really_ here. Patriotism is fine and all, but only a brainless fool would march to the death for his country like this. Going at it alone, in the middle of enemy territory? It might be rotten, but you've got a brain rolling around in there. Unless this was all just an elaborate suicide plan, I suggest you start talking."

I hit a brick wall. My words had the opposite effect from the one I'd desired. Rather than cracking under the pressure, Alfons merely took two steps back and sat on the cot, staring at me with shaky determination he'd dug up somewhere.

The hard way it was.

"Okay," I said, very slowly. "I'm only going to say this once, so listen closely. _You've lost_. You're running for the finish line with a broken leg. Two thirds of your party is gone and you've been locked up by the Second Owner of the whole city with no chance of escape. There's no one to help you."

"And you?" He was challenging my words.

"We're not here to bust you out," I lied. I saw Moriah glaring at me and held up a single finger to keep her at bay. "We didn't drive all the way here, into enemy territory, to rescue our own competition. That would be just plain idiotic. So please, whatever you do, don't make the mistake of assuming you're speaking to a Joe that _cares_."

That did the trick. Oh, sure, he still put up the tough front, but the cracks were easy to see. I'm not the most experienced bloke when it comes to putting on a scary act, but tricking a scared kid is something anyone can do. Doesn't mean I didn't feel like a jackass.

After that rousing performance, the rest was easy. When you put a man in the corner, he'll grasp at straws if he believes they'll get him out of it. He didn't even think to call my bluff. Being a magus means everyone always suspects the worst of you.

"Now listen up," I told him carefully. "You're a good kid. I don't particularly dislike you, and that's more than I can say for most magi. What I'm offering here is a deal that gives us both what we want. You tell me everything you know about that thing you woke up, not just conjecture and wild theories, and I'll let you out of here. You'll have to sign a contract on your Circuits to stay out of the whole thing, but after that you're free. No debts, no Sword of Damocles, nothing. What's it gonna be?"

"Moriah," he whispered.

There was no response.

"Mor," he said weakly. "Please."

I looked back and instantly regretted it. Moriah met my eyes, and I shook my head.

"It's for the best." I said it mostly for myself. You repeat anything enough times and you start to believe it. "He won't make it out there on luck alone."

She looked away and closed her eyes. After a moment, she nodded.

"Sorry, kid. Not this time."

It wasn't even the hardest deal I could offer. He deliberated for a good minute before accepting. The whole time Moriah did her best to look like an abandoned puppy. It was a damn good first try.

And they say being nice is its own reward.

I slipped the contract through the opening, along with a torch so he could read it in the darkness. Alfons looked over the words with tired eyes. He glanced up at me after finishing.

"You really are a magus," he said, and then signed it.

"My grandmother came here, years ago," he began abruptly, after pen left paper. "She accompanied a crazed lunatic claiming to have discovered something amazing in Egypt. Our family was smaller, then. A dry spell brought desperation and made us willing to sink to new lows. The man was from a respected family. The level of risk was judged to be low. She was as good a Scribe as any, certainly better than you."

A pause. The boy wouldn't meet my eyes. I opened the door and he stood slowly, walking out with measured steps as if I'd taken all the life from his body.

"She never returned. The Guide, a local man, somehow made it back to our home and relayed her last words. Both the Magus and the Scribe, dead, leaving behind only a tattered journal and his fractured recollections. A historian, he called himself, but at the end of the day the knowledge he'd studied for all of his life had been fractured beyond repair. He imparted onto us the rest before sinking into a coma from which he would never wake. I suspect his body had forgotten how."

"Aten. That was his name. It was the name that Dead Apostle chose, after he discarded his own. A new title for a new life. Give me a paper."

I did. With a care that belied his haggard gaze, Alfons pressed it flat against one of the walls, withdrew an ink pen from a pocket, and sketched out a quick diagram. When he handed it back, I instantly recognized it.

The sun disk. From above it shone down solid rays to the invisible earth. It was the same image we'd seen all over the underground tomb.

"How well do you know your Egyptian history?" he asked.

"Not at all," I admitted. "I've rather purposefully neglected it."

I'll spare a direct transcription of his impromptu lecture and consequent explanation, in favour of a more condensed approach. There's very little appeal in sorting through a young man's rambling, uncoordinated tale. Reading a summary is a much better use of one's time.

Ancient Egypt had a single religion. Generations upon generations of God-Kings served as avatars for a rich pantheon with a legacy that would make the Greeks shudder. Such theism was preserved for millennia, while most of us were learning how to bang rocks together. However, for a length of time spanning the reign of a single pharaoh called Amenhotep the Fourth, a different god reigned. This new religion that sprang up from nothingness was monotheistic, worshipping the Solar Disk: Aten.

That much is apparently considered common knowledge here, though it certainly came as a surprise to me. I was starting to doubt the arbitrariness of the name we gave to that undead fiend. Perhaps it was his from the start. Our little friend _was_ found beneath Amenhotep's tomb. Coincidences like that don't exist. Moriah likely knew from the beginning, but found it unnecessary to elaborate. I can see her logic from here. After all, it was only the _next_ revelation that actually held value.

Aten is a Dead Apostle. That much is certain. Yet, completely contrasting that, he was worshipped as a Solar diety. Either we completely misidentified his nature, or there was more to this tale. Alfons was only too happy – with a bit of persuasion – to elaborate.

"What would lead a pharaoh to attempt to eradicate religion spanning centuries?" Alfons postulated. "Why would Amenhotep wish to tear down such a history to put in place a new one? The theory that there was something supernatural behind the pharaoh's actions is not an old one, but few could have guessed its true nature. In the Age of Gods, belief reigned. The hopes and dreams of a country could forge miracles. Then, what if one could take hold of that power and use it for himself?"

There are a limitless number of answers to that question. We only needed a single one, and the boy didn't even need to say what it was.

"Being undead wasn't enough," I said. "Aten needed to be rid of his primary weakness: Sol."

"And what better way," Moriah realized. "Than to wield the very weapon that could bring about his demise? A Sun God could never be slain by the day, even if he was originally a Dead Apostle."

"Precisely," Alfons said. The excitement of having someone else understand broke through his sullen mood. "Atenism lasted a mere twenty years, but during those years Aten harvested all the belief he could. The pharaoh was his puppet, pulling the strings of an entire people. And yet, despite that victory, Atenism was disbanded, and Aten cast down into the depths of the earth. After all, how does one slay a God?"

Archibald's own words. The puzzle was practically complete. Only bits and pieces remained.

"Someone, no, quite a few people, bound it," he answered. "That tomb we explored; who do you think built it? Magi that knew their religion was a farce and saw through the pharaoh's deception. They must have banded together and wrestled down the false idol, interring him underneath the Nile, to sleep and never again wake."

It all fit. The traps. The secrecy. The underground living quarters and workshop. People had devoted their whole lives to keeping Aten sealed, going so far as to bury themselves with him. Several lifetimes of work, and we'd trampled all over it.

No. Not us.

"And yet you woke him up."

He took that one like a punch to the gut. There's nothing quite like seeing a man's face turn ashen as you find his weak point and _squeeze_.

"You awoke something that's going to kill millions of people. How _genocidal_ of you."

"I – er – that is." Alfons flapped his gums uselessly for a moment before firing back. "That could've been an accident," he said weakly. "I certainly didn't intend to do such a thing! I'm here because my father got a letter and decided to send me in his stead. Reanimating the creature is the _opposite_ of what I want!"

"Alfons." This time it was Moriah.

"It's true," he said. "I'm not lying."

I interrupted him before he could go too far with it. "That's not what she's worried about," I said. "If you were lying, your circuits would be slicing themselves to bits right now."

She nodded. "Speak carefully. A contract is not something to _test_."

The inside of the room was insulated from the day's heat, but Alfons still sweated like a stuck pig. He stared at the walls, took heavy breaths of air that wasn't getting enough air to his brain, and generally looked as guilty as possible.

"I. Can't. Remember," he repeated. "It isn't a matter of what could have happened; I simply do not know. Whenever I try to think of that time, the memory just isn't there."

Entropy. It couldn't be.

"What about in the divination room?" I asked. "I saw you awake and speaking to the thing. It's didn't even try to rough you up the same way it got us. Are you pleading ignorance there, too?"

He shook his head frantically. "I don't know! All I recall is you waking me up and bits and pieces of our escape. I swear on my family name that it's the truth!"

Somehow my fist ended up slamming into the wall, cracking both it and possibly a few of my bones. Moriah and Alfons took simultaneous steps away from me, exchanging worried looks.

That slimy little _shit_ had outplayed us.

Not the boy. Never him. He was too green to do a damn thing on his own. No, it was Aten. He'd been paranoid enough to erase all traces of his interactions with Alfons, so that no one could know.

Why? Why go to such lengths to keep things hidden, and yet not simply end the kid's life? Had they struck some kind of deal? Was Alfons blackmailing an immortal former-deity? Did he have something the undead bastard needed?

The answers existed, but they'd been erased, like a crossword puzzle with no clues.

Well, fine. If Aten wanted to play it like that, we'd oblige. I didn't need to know what kind of plan they'd cooked up, but if it involved the kid, all I needed to do was take him out of the picture.

"Kid."

"Y-yes?"

"I don't know why you're still here, and frankly, I don't care. Go home. Tell your family whatever you need to, and tell your Führer to off himself while you're at it. I don't want to see you in Cairo an hour from now. Promise."

He looked at Moriah again, as if she was a guardian angel. She shook her head, not meeting his eyes.

He promised.

I sent Moriah to walk Alfons to the car. They needed some time alone to talk things out and maybe prevent whatever relationship they had from fracturing completely. I needed that same time to calm down a heart that seemed to want to fight its way out of my chest. I don't enjoy being hard on kids like that, but better me than someone else. He'll learn soon enough that this is for the best.

In the meantime, I returned to the Einzbern I'd been neglecting.

I slid open the hatch and peered inside.

"Gonna blow your wig again?"

"…no." The reply was dejected.

"Good. No more trying to bleed me. You ain't the one with the knife here, and I'm feeling a bit evil tonight. What's your deal?"

"I seek passage East," the Einzbern replied, measuring each word carefully. "In one piece, preferably. I carry within me a curse that needs to be delivered. Nothing else."

"Got any hankering to visit the pyramids or go hunting for mummies?"

"None."

"What'll you do the moment you get out of here?"

"I have a contact in this base. A spy for our military. He will arrange a plane for me and I will leave the country as soon as possible."

"Sign, please." I slipped a contract and paper through the slot, and got to work on a simple trick. Removing the firing hammer from Miss Velvet was simple enough, and manually stamping the rune on its tip onto a single bullet was even easier. I then hung the bullet by some fishing wire onto the door latch, and finally retrieved the paper.

"Okay, bucko," I said. "Here's the deal. I'm leaving now. Wait an hour and the door's gonna open on its own. If I see you again in Cairo, your head explodes, so no more trouble. Understood?"

"Understood, Englishman. The next time we meet, it will be your head exploding."

"Love you too."

I found Moriah standing by the car, sans a certain Eastern-European magus. None of the listless soldiers had any wish to bother her, and neither did I. But it's my job to poke my nose into the hornet's nest so no one else gets stung.

"He gone?" I asked.

"Affirmative."

"That kid's better off. I did him a favour. You alright?"

She jumped into the driver's seat and gunned the engine. "I fail to see the relevance of such a query. I am not some child to be coddled. My emotions will not influence my performance or the future in any way. Your lateness, however, still could. Get in."

I obliged. Sometimes the best course of action is to shut up. Moriah wasn't stupid. She knew exactly what I'd done and why I'd done it. All the same, lying to a girl ain't ever a good idea, even if it's for a good cause. It was probably dawning on her just how hasty her crush had been, and how different we were. Like night and day.

Day and night?

As soon as the stray thought crossed my mind, it brought one of those premonitions Moriah spoke of. For me it's likely just gut instinct rather than any kind of clairvoyance, but I've learned to trust it over the years. If my hunch was right...

"Hey, that thing with Aten, about him conquering the sun." It was a silly thought, but the more I entertained the notion, the less ridiculous and more terrifying it became. "Is it possible? I ain't exactly an expert on Vampires. I hear one of 'em has an underwater castle somewhere in the Pacific or Atlantic, so there's a precedent for this sort of thing, I'd wager."

Her reply was short and to the point. "I don't know."

"Fine. Assuming it is, and whatever religious mumbo jumbo was going on a thousand years ago actually worked, doesn't that mean he can travel during the day as well as during the night? And that whatever solar countermeasure the Sister gave you won't do a damn thing?"

For a moment the only reply was the grumbling of the car's motor. Then Moriah's head turned and her wide-open eyes met mine. We were both thinking the same thing: The prediction had been off.

She gunned it.


	14. Final Entry

This is the final entry for this expedition. Only time will tell if it is to be the last one I ever write. From this point forward all words will be placed and interpreted in real time. I've spared a miniscule amount of prana to transcribe the tail end of this Record onto paper in case of my death. If my body is in one piece, it will be found in my breast pocket. If you're reading this, Archibald, it will have satisfied our contract. If you managed to prevent this genocide, my Record will serve as adequate enough evidence for the Vice Director.

This is my last will and testament. Should I fall, my few possessions and wealth are to go to my housekeeper. A copy of our contract will be included for identification. Since I have no next of kin, I'd ask that my Crest be left intact and not be removed from my body so that my memory can die with me.

However, I'm not so foolish as to believe in such a convenient end. If you're reading this, magus, I only have one thing to say: Don't waste your time. There's nothing for you here. My tale is absolutely worthless. The only thing you have to gain from studying my Crest is a Record of a short, uneventful life.

Now be done with it.

"We don't know the trigger," Moriah explained as she swerved around a corner, tapping on the break like a drummer. Several people had to dive around the corner to avoid our careening vehicle. "We were unable to find anything resembling one, but it should exist. Above all else, prioritize keeping Aten away from it. The moment he regains more than a fraction of his true strength, he'll be beyond our reach and the foreseen future will be certainty."

I was more focused on keeping my breakfast in my stomach than paying attention to possible genocide, but I spared a nod.

"I'm not supposed to tell you of my pact with the Church, but in this case, it's necessary for you to know," she continued. "Archibald hired me legitimately. It was only afterwards that Atlas decided I should be a liaison for any agents our temporary allies sent on this mission."

"So you weren't a double agent?"

I think she rolled her eyes. Might've been my imagination.

"If they wanted a spy, they'd have sent one. I was merely given instructions to address a certain event with a low probability of occurring in the first place."

"Fine. Then what-!" She braked abruptly. I almost broke a rib on the dash. "Then what did the Sister do?"

"She planted a weapon in the Giza Necropolis. A loan from the Church. I have successfully retrieved it, though its effectiveness has been called into question, in light of new revelations…"

"Where?"

"Already on my person. You won't be able to use it."

The morning had faded into a sizzling afternoon. The sun beat down upon my back and the air was as thick as it had been when we first touched down on this god-forsaken continent. I'd almost gotten used to the heat, but now it returned in full force as I tried to think of ten things at once.

On top of that, I was juggling highly explosive materials in the passenger seat of a very bumpy ride. If you've never had to carve a rune onto a piece of metal the size of a fingernail, keep it that way. That goes double if you're just copying a sensitive magical engraving without knowing how it actually works.

"What are you doing?" Moriah asked after we reached a fairly empty stretch of road.

"Preparing a weapon of my own," I told her as I hefted the tube-like structure and rested it on my shoulder. "Says in the instruction manual that this thing can blast through two inches of steel. If that ain't military bunkum, a walking corpse shouldn't fare much better."

She glanced at the thing. "You do know you're holding it backwards."

"Of course," I lied.

I didn't entertain many notions of being the decisive factor in the engagement. Archibald can work miracles, but I'm just a guy with a few enchanted guns. Working on something just helps to take the mind off of other things. In this case, impending demise. So I backed up vital memories to my Record and put tiny pieces of metal together.

More than once I considered asking Moriah to turn the car around. There was still a chance of being out of the blast radius before Aten worked his unholy magic. We could've hijacked a plane and flown out of Cairo. In many respects it would give us a better chance than our current course. I'm no Enforcer. Neither is Archibald, and Moriah, while adept enough, is still green behind the ears. Any chance we stood against an undead monstrosity would be minimal at best.

All of the resolve that I'd built up the previous night seemed to have been drained away.

What stopped me wasn't just my promise to myself. It was something she told me, as we drifted along the Nile after a close brush with death. My Record seemed to drag up the memory by itself, replaying it with new clarity as I pondered my next course of action.

Moriah said our situation would lead to trouble. Now I knew what that trouble was.

If I asked, she wouldn't refuse. If she made a request, no matter how unreasonable, I'd try to fulfill it. At that moment, if I decided we should run, we'd be directly opposing each other. One would have to give out, and it wouldn't be a quiet loss.

Did I have the guts to risk my life? Were we both brave enough to toss away our pride and resolve and run away, abandoning Archibald? I'm no coward, but I'm no fool either. I'd rather tell my kids about how I made the best of a bad situation than have them think it's okay to never back down. Everyone needs to know when to fold 'em.

Too bad I'm a horrible gambler.

Of the words that could be used to describe the state of things when we arrived, "boring" wasn't one of them. Archibald is anything but subtle. It happened just as the pyramids were in clear sight. Moriah slammed on the brakes a full second before the impact, but we still hit the boundary field like face to concrete. There was a cacophony of metallic shrieks and the jeep almost flipped over, but no one was injured.

In the time it took me to get my bearings, Moriah was poring over the invisible boundary we couldn't cross. "Definitely Archibald's work," she murmured. "But it's too general. This wouldn't stop Aten for more than a minute. Why did he not focus the field against Dead Apostles…?"

"It's not Aten he wants to keep out. The bastard just can't stand competition."

Moriah felt around the invisible wall for a minute with no success. Just as I was entertaining the idea of just blowing the thing open, her hand passed through.

"It's keyed to our prana signatures," she explained. "Quickly, there's little time."

She wasn't kidding. As I slipped past, the peaceful tourist attraction became a scene out of a scary story you'd tell to naughty children.

Where can I begin to describe it? Without sufficient time to acclimatize, I could only take in everything at once. The closest thing I can compare the experience to was the first time I walked from the dirty London alleys into the Clock Tower, when cheeky urchins and cramped construction were replaced by ancient books, furniture, and people, all in a place older than most of London itself.

This wasn't London. It was a child's reimagining of Hell.

It was the overabundance of red that did it. Gone was the clear blue sky and the pale sands that complemented it. Red sand, red air, and red sky all meshed together in the worst possible way, polymerizing to deliver a repugnant sense of wrongness, as if we'd ventured into a metal giant's rusted away innards. None of it was vibrant, not even the massive orb that stood where the sun used to be, but now hung twice as large and with half the intensity. The torrid heat beat down on me like Aten's fist. Luckily, or perhaps unfortunately, he wasn't one to keep his guests waiting.

A sea of dried up husks greeted our passage. From where we stood, all the way to the pyramids and Necropolis, masses of shuffling Dead took in new prey. They were a mix of ancient mummies and recently deceased tourists still clad in their silly souvenirs. The front row alone was more than what we'd faced at the tomb, and now we didn't have the luxury of Archibald's aid to hold them back. There must have been hundreds. The closest ones were less than a half-hundred meters away. As one, they shuffled around to stare at us.

In that moment, rather than addressing the terror coursing through my veins, all I could think of was that the Vice Director _really_ should've sent a team of Enforcers instead.

"Moriah," I said.

"Yes?" She stared straight ahead, eyes wide.

"Is the sun supposed to look like that?"

"No, it isn't. I'll hold them off. Get the car."

By that, of course, she meant 'drag the car through the field with you'. Not an easy task to do, even with Reinforcement, but perhaps foreseeing this development, Moriah hadn't bothered to put on the brakes. I reached out to grab the jeep's carriage and it slid towards me with only a fair bit of pulling.

Yes, I _did_ in fact turn my back on an army of undead monstrosities to follow the instructions of a girl almost a decade younger than me. I did it despite having no idea what she could possibly use it for with a field of Dead in our way. It wasn't like I had any better plans, and trusting a clairvoyant didn't seem like the worst idea at the time.

The sounds of fighting behind me as I strained were limited to shifting sand and something sharp cutting through the air. I haven't tangled with them much before, but I hear the Dead are often completely silent. It's the Ghouls that moan and groan as they bite your face off. So as Moriah grunted and groaned, I could only imagine the results.

The circle closed quickly. Bodies hit the floor, likely sliced apart by razor wire and Etherlite, but it was like trying to hold back the tide. By the time the back of the car cleared the barrier my muscles and circuits burned, and I swear I could hear one of those things breathing down my neck. I turned and swung wildly with a desperate punch, and was surprised to feel only light resistance before a dusty head flew from bony shoulders, which collapsed at my feet along with the rest of the dead body. Behind it, a dozen more shambled towards me.

"Get in and hold on!" Moriah leapt over the roof with a fancy twirl. Behind her, three overeager tourists fell apart into wet chunks, splattering the windshield with tainted blood. I, like a normal person, settled for the door, though Miss Daisy still had to hand out a free trepanation to a particularly eager corpse.

We were surrounded and in an instant the horde would climb into the Jeep and pull it apart, and us with it. It was over. All of that bluster and trouble, just to get torn apart by the lowest of the low.

No, there was still a chance. The boundary field! I could jump backwards, slip through their grip, and be safe outside with them trapped in. A much better alternative than painful demise.

"Moriah, we're dead!"

"Trust me!"

Against my better judgement, I did.

She floored it. The jeep shot forward with what little horsepower it could muster, straight into the jaws of death. There wasn't enough time to do anything but quiver and regret opening my stupid mouth.

And then the front row of reaching hands fell apart, as did their owners, and with a series of sickening crunches that shook the whole car, we ran straight over a small family. The ones behind started shambling towards us, but they too couldn't get past the invisible field at the front of the car. This time only their upper bodies were shredded, with the wheels getting enough grip on skin and cloth to ride on top of the mashed together flesh.

The first few seconds were the bumpiest. Eventually, though, we levelled out, with the jeep somehow skimming across the _top_ of the sea of Dead. Flailing arms served to hold us up rather than pull us down, and none could get a grip on the jeep's chassis without their fingers being sliced to ribbons. The wet, sloshy sounds of human bodies being torn apart was countered by the sputtering engine, and the sickly sweet scent of blood by the constant taste of ash and burnt flesh.

A chubby hand tried to get a grip on my door, but fell apart before it could so much as scratch the already ruined paint. There was a small dip as we passed over a "dune", before the jeep levelled off and we continued sailing over Dead like a bloody yacht. Monsters that should've been able to tear apart the jeep as easily as a man ripped up a newspaper could only support us.

"Moriah!" I yelled. It was almost as loud as that damn plane. I felt like I'd fallen into the middle of a meat grinder.

"Yes!?" She was grinning. Or maybe that was just my imagination.

"What the fuck!?"

She hung a right. _She hung a right_. Somehow, as my mind tried to comprehend this impossibility, Moriah had learned how to turn.

"You should have studied your Dead Apostles more!" she yelled. "It is a basic fact that they are weakened during the day! Take a look at the sky if you need a reminder!"

As a wedding ring-clad finger flew past my nose, I realized she was right. Aten may have found a way to counter the Sun's poison, but his spawn were of the more conventional variety. It was surprising that they could even stand. What could at full strength dodge a bullet and separate limb from body effortlessly was now about as dangerous as a retirement home.

And then we were treading air and there were no more dead bodies.

So perhaps my panicked mind overestimated the number of Dead. What I'd thought was thousands turned out to be perhaps a bit over a hundred, and Moriah's impromptu stunt came to an end once we ran out of "road". We touched down rather roughly but Moriah kept the engine going. Miss Daisy and I had to fend off an armful of fetid claws, but we were clear for the moment.

"This is insane," I said.

"Hardly." Moriah accelerated. The jeep's sturdy tires found purchase on sand and centuries-old stone and we shot forward, out of reach of the animated dead, who couldn't even hope to give chase.

"Where are we even _going_?!"

On our left rose the Great Sphinx, eroded and a shadow of its former self. In the red light, it almost seemed to pulse with life like the silent watcher it was meant to be. Moriah didn't even spare it a glance. "Not Khufu's," she said. "It will be Khafre's."

"The second pyramid?" I was too busy reloading and double-checking my armaments to question her logic.

She swivelled left on the well-worn road. "Yes. Be prepared."

Up until then, we'd been the greatest source of noise in the Necropolis. The Dead were silent and so was everything else, our jeep notwithstanding. As we progressed, however, I picked up a crunching, groaning sound ahead, up, and to the left. The largest pyramid, where some bloke named Khufu had at one point taken a nap, was clearly visible on the right, with its slightly smaller partner bordering the other side of the road that ran between them. Though I may use the word "small" here, I assure you it was anything but. Just one step was taller than me, and it must've had damn near a hundred of them.

I wasn't about to count them, however, because a much more pressing matter took every ounce of attention I could spare.

Khafre's pyramid, which was maybe a story or two shorter than Khufu's, couldn't rightly be called a pyramid anymore. The bottom half was fine, but higher up, oddities were clearly visible. Oddities such as pillars of stone jutting at absurd angles from seemingly random places, or missing chunks that looked to have been torn out by some gigantic animal's teeth. The very top was a constantly shifting mess of rock and sand. I could make out what sounded like a roar, or it might've just been Archibald swearing.

Oh, and between the two pyramids, directly in our way, stood the remainder of Aten's undead contingent. He'd evidently held back, because these rank and file warriors were clad in what had once been gold-plated armour, wielding spears and swords and sharp things that I wanted as far away from me as possible.

Moriah wasn't perturbed. "Take the wheel," she said as she stood on her seat. I frantically grabbed the aforementioned wheel and did my best to keep it straight.

"Have you got a plan or are you making this up as we go along!?"

I think she smiled. "I'm counting on you." And then she leapt from the vehicle, straight over the makeshift railing that separated the road from Khafre's pyramid and the mess that was currently ruining any value it might have as a national treasure, leaving me to take on yet another undead horde alone.

Well, this was less of a horde and more like a large squad. I counted maybe two dozen. No doubt it'd be an easy task for an Enforcer or one of those Church folk, but for someone like me who makes a point of avoiding scraps, it's a completely different story. I found myself wishing for Jeanne as I extracted myself from my seat, weighed down the gas pedal with the heavy rock Moriah'd left in the car for exactly that purpose, made a few minor tweaks to the jeep's heading, threw my pack out, and then dived after it.

When I came up there was a sizeable gap in their ranks. Ten-pin isn't exactly my thing, but with a road this narrow it's hard not to get a good score. The rest of the weakened ghouls raised their weapons and charged.

I'll spare an intricate description of the ugliness. Not even I would want to read about something as mundane as a struggle for survival against a few barely functioning stiffs. It will suffice for me to say that my rather economical clothing's sale price was further reduced by the addition of several new holes and bloodstains, and that if I wasn't already getting my bullets for cheap I'd have blown through the ammo budget ten times over.

More interesting was the scuffle on top of the pyramid. My view of it was peripheral at best and not helped by the constant need to split attention, so I couldn't make out much at all. New constructs were birthed at a steady rate by Archibald's magic, but never did he seem to land a clean hit, for none carried with them the snarling menace we hoped to halt. At one point a spear even Atlas would find difficult to wield emerged vertically, piercing the sky with a writhing figure on top. Aten – and it must have been him – extracted himself as the spell carried him upwards more than twice the height of the pyramid, and fell straight down like a bullet. A sea of spikes rose to meet him, but collapsed into dust before he even reached them.

The impact sent cracks through the pyramid. The remnants of Archibald's previous attempts crumbled apart, revealing two tiny figures facing off on an all-too small platform with the stone spear in the middle, dividing them.

By that time I had to duck a rather persistent sword intent on gouging my eyes out, and when I looked back there was a third combatant entering the play. Each step was as tall as a man, but Moriah ran straight up the sides of the pyramid as if they were completely flat, likely balancing on her strings or some equally ridiculous stunt.

My eyes missed what exactly occurred when she reached the top, as at that moment they were too busy guiding Miss Daisy's bullet through an overeager Dead's brain stem. I do know what I heard, however, and it was none too pretty. An unearthly scream that by process of elimination could only have belonged to Aten blasted through my ears, almost costing me a few fingers. It must've been even worse up close. But it wasn't the end, because the ruckus kept going, this time with a trio rather than a duet.

It wouldn't last. I could hope, but I couldn't shake the premonition that we were fighting a losing battle.

Someone else, however, could shake it for me.

Never get introspective in a mess like this. It'll slow you down, dull your reactions, and eventually leave you with pointy things where they ought not to be. A fellow wielding a rather large axe was about to prove that point before a hand descended upon my collar and summarily yanked me out of the way.

"You are slow, Englishman."

For a moment my heart stopped and I imagined the Einzbern from earlier coming back to get even. But then I saw the youthful face and shaky grin and knew it was much, much worse than that.

Alfons looked like he'd just run a marathon and lost. We both backed up, him stumbling from weariness and me from nerves. He shook like a man afflicted with some terrible palsy. I must've been the same. Had he run the whole way here?

I planted a bullet between the axe-wielder's eyes and bought us a few seconds. "You're not supposed to be here," I said. "Actually, you _can't_ be here. How are you still walking?"

He laughed, a sharp, short thing. "Your contract was flawed from the start. I seek no favours from the Tower, and I've done nothing to pursue them. If I can help Mor, that's enough."

Fools. Young, lovestruck fools.

"These blokes-."

He pushed past me, drawing forth a curved knife from some hidden pocket. "Go. They need help. The undead pose me little threat."

There wasn't enough time to stay and argue. I made a wide berth around the horde I'd barely dented, leaving the kid alone to handle them. Better him than me.

Climbing a pyramid ain't like climbing a staircase. Every step is an ordeal, each one tougher than the last. I didn't bother to keep count, but after the twentieth I could taste twenty-year old air from the bottom of my lungs. All of this to the sounds of earth warring with itself and unintelligible yells, heat from the too-close sun boiling me alive, the ever-present sand getting into _everything_, and half an armory on my back. Was it a minute? Two? Five? It does not matter; by the end I sat alone at the peak of a run-down pyramid, on top of the world and about to dethrone a God.

A God that happened to be one pyramid over. I'm not stupid. I didn't need to endure another beating to get the message that up-close and personal isn't the best way to handle something that can decapitate a grown man with one finger. Khufu's pyramid offered good high ground. Miss Velvet was only too happy to bring the vantage.

Even looking at the mess through a scope didn't help much. I made out glimpses of Moriah, Archibald, and a tangled mess of dirty bandages and golden adornment that must have been Aten. He waded through jagged stalagmites and shrapnel as if it was a light spring rain. Everything dissolved into sand the moment it touched skin. Moriah seemed to flick something forward and his arm jerked, but he recovered and pulled, almost toppling the nimble alchemist. Then he waved lazily and she flew backwards into the air as if buffeted by some heavy wind. The force would've carried her completely off the side of the pyramid had the ever present pillar in the center not served as a useful support she could grab with her strings.

And so on and so forth. There's not much more to say. It was an endless waltz that showed no sign of stopping. Two mortal companions and a helpless observer struggling to stay alive against something infinitely more dangerous and incapable of tiring.

With a bit of help, Lysander Octavius Archibald would sing the song that ended that dance.

I don't know why I took the shot when I did. I've got a steady hand and a good trigger finger, but you'll find plenty of blokes in the army that can do better. In the chaos, with a large chance of friendly fire, I can't rightly say what it was that guided me. But whatever the reason, the result was the same.

I fired.

Aten spun, looking right at me even from that distance. I could see the red in his eyes, hear his vow to hunt me down and tear me apart limb from limb. I could feel his power sinking into my brain, looking for things to pluck out. I'd backed up my vital functions on the Record, but if I fired again the terror would certainly lead me astray.

Miss Velvet's bullet slammed into his forehead and did absolutely nothing. All the force and momentum that had carried it across the divide completely dissipated. I saw his toothy, flesh-less grin below the shattered mask.

But it was enough. Aten was so focused on me that he didn't realise Moriah had already set up her trap. Her Etherlite must've been powerful enough to hold off a vampire's strength, because he couldn't move a muscle, only slowly turn back and see what awaited.

It pains me that I could not make out the words Archibald's booming voice roared, for they certainly sounded impressive. I caught snippets; something about banners and spears and legions, but the sounds seemed to melt in the air as they travelled, perhaps influenced by Aten's decay. The spell, however, wasn't affected in the slightest.

The gleaming lance which had carried Aten to the sky now sank into the pyramid, rapidly disappearing. There was silence, and then the thing erupted at an impossible angle, piercing the immobile vampire and carrying him from the structure. This one didn't dissolve. It thrust into the sky, as if declaring victory.

That would've been all fine and dandy if Archie hadn't chosen a particular angle that meant I was about to be much closer to Aten than I would've liked. The bastard probably did it on _purpose_.

As I dove backwards the spear hit home, smashing into the pyramid a bit below the top and piercing straight through. There was a cacophony of noise and dust and my perch shook like a crow's nest during a storm, and then all was quiet save for the quiet moaning of a deathless man wishing he could end it all.

After recovering a semblance of balance I skirted around the side of the pyramid, holding onto the cracked and pitted granite in case the thousand-year-old structure collapsed.

I found Aten some ways down, his torso completely taken up by solid stone and held together only by some scraps of flesh and fabric. He hadn't healed around it, and, upon seeing some iridescent veins in Archibald's great spear, I'm inclined to think he couldn't. Even in that pathetic state I felt claws in my mind, slowly chewing away at my existence. There was no time to waste.

"Where?" he saw me and hissed weakly through the shattered remains of his stone mask. "Where _is it_?"

I flipped Miss Daisy open and shook out the empty shell casings.

"My power… they told me… my seers said I would find it _here_-!"

A full cylinder snapped into place. I pointed the barrel in his general direction.

He looked at me. Red eyes burned. The curse ate away at my ability to function. Simple autonomous functions eroded. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't blink. My heart all but forgot how to beat.

My Record remembered it all. That, he could never touch.

I looked away and fired. He twitched and grunted. The gun ran dry. All six bullets detonated at once, splattering my cheek with viscera. Then I reloaded and shot him in the face some more until he stopped moving and I felt his rancid grip on my soul loosen.

Was it over? That easily? No, of course not.

Moriah was by my side in moments. She ran straight across the makeshift bridge Archibald had set up without a moment of hesitation or thought for what should happen if she slipped and fell. She looked a bit the worse for wear, but shallow scratches and soon-to-be bruises were about it. She took one look at the mangled body before me and uncoiled her strings.

"Step back. He is not yet dead."

I obliged, and watched as she got to work. Within moments what remained of Aten was wrapped up from head to toe in thin, almost invisible cords. Moriah murmured a few words and performed some gestures with her fingers, and suddenly those cords were silvery wrappings and the ancient mummy before us looked much fresher. The Church's weapon had done its job well.

It spasmed. Aten, perhaps sensing his demise, put up one last futile effort, and then stopped moving altogether. The sun above us seemed to lose a bit of its angry tinge, but I still felt ill at ease.

"Archibald?" I asked.

"In no condition to move. Most of his fine motor features have been lost, but he will live. As for Aten.."

"I don't get it," I admitted. "Why did he go down like that?"

She stared at the bundle, sharing my concern. "It was an unwise move. Had he attacked at night like the vampire he is, rather than the God he cannot be, the odds would have been further in his favour. As to why, the picture is becoming clearer. The sun and the moon are eternally opposed. To go from one to the other…"

"It doesn't work," Alfons said, panting, from a level down. Moriah practically jumped out of her skin at the sound. Only time I've ever seen her so surprised. Even her unfailing prediction hadn't seen him coming. "There's a reason Gods and Vampires don't mix. One is born from humanity, another from the moon." He grunted as he painfully dragged himself up the step, trailing blood on the pale orange stone.

"Undying and Undead. Light and Dark. Worship and Censure. Opposites don't always attract."

I gave the kid a hand, pulling him up the rest of the way. Moriah was still speechless, just staring, wide-eyed, at my unlikely saviour. "Oil and water cannot mix," he continued. "Stir them together and for a time the illusion of a homogenous substance may be preserved, but they will always separate. Aten was doomed from the beginning."

The bundle screamed. Even muffled, the sound rippled through my ear drums, almost shaking me from my tenuous perch atop the pyramid. Moriah was pale, but Alfons barely seemed to hear it. He stumbled forward, leaning against the step for support, having sustained what I suspect were numerous wounds. "You were a God for a time, Aten," he whispered, no longer addressing us. "But you are two trying to be one. After ten years of rule, your followers put you to sleep, not to dethrone you but to _save_ you before the power you created tore all of Egypt apart, and you with it."

Moriah lost her footing. I barely caught her before she tumbled down the giant steps and to her doom. Her mouth moved, but no words came out, and she shook in my arms like a sick child. Suddenly I was regretting helping the kid up. Where was Archibald when you needed him? Oh right; still on the other pyramid, trying not to choke to death on his own spit.

Alfons glanced her way and smiled weakly. "Mor, the rumours were true, all of them. Your family really did pillage and blaspheme the tombs of the other pharaohs, all to try and find a way to revive Aten. The texts my grandmother's Scribe brought back… they explained everything. But your ancestors forgot. They threw away their familial duty, and so the Sun God's blessing became a curse."

I drew.

He was faster.

The barrel of a pistol pushed my head back. It pressed against the underside of my jaw. Alfons only had one working hand, but it moved with purpose I lacked. Moriah just shuddered.

"Don't worry, Mor," the boy continued. "This is a good thing. Once you eliminate the Vampire, only the God will remain. All that divine power, and us the last worshippers left to receive it. My family and yours, restored to their former glory. The institute won't be able to laugh at you anymore."

"You're mad," I said, with nothing much better coming to mind.

He looked at me and chuckled. "Mad? I'm _livid_. Fuck the Clock Tower. Fuck the Vice Director's favour. Fuck these stupid rules meant to pit us against each other like some kind of twisted game. I'll have no part in it. You've been on the bottom your whole life, so you can't tell the difference. But us? Mor and I? We've been bearing the burden of our bloodlines this whole time. What obligations does a first-generation nobody have!?"

The gun twisted, prodding lower and almost crushing my windpipe. Was it his, or had he snagged a new one? I couldn't know. Miss Daisy hadn't even left her holster. He was giving me a chance to speak, to beg or defiantly refuse and have those words be my epitaph.

Almost on its own, the memory came forth from the Record. It was an old one, long forgotten, but preserved as fresh as the day it had been painfully born into my world.

"Dad thought he was helping," I choked out. Alfons blinked, and the barrel retreated a hair. "We had nothing. No one could find work, especially not a man crippled from War. The government checks weren't enough. For us, sure, but not for him."

I remembered. No, this wasn't remembering; I relived the memory, every moment of it, every detail, in a fraction of a second. "He told me he wasn't done yet. Not done living. Not done making his mark on the world. So he left. He and damn near every other fool in the state packed up and jumped ship, with a one-way ticket to Egypt, all of our money, and nothing but empty promises that when he came back we'd be filthy rich."

I remembered my childish pride. My hopes, which I pinned on the strong hand that gently patted down my unruly hair. I remember unwavering confidence, belief that this man was doing what he did for us and not to satisfy his own wounded ego. What had been a child's strength then, now hurt more than any of my body's aches or pains.

"Nothing came of it. Nothing ever comes of it. Hundreds of dreamers tried to find historical gold in these places, but all they ever found was the dead. Do you think I came here chasing that bastard? So I could welcome him back? So I could punch him in the face and tell him never to show his face again? So I could finish his job for him, like you're doing? _No_. I don't ever want to be on that man's trail. His footsteps are his and no one else's. This whole damn country and its tourist attractions can rot in hell."

I made my bet.

Miss Daisy rose. I heard the hammer of Alfons' gun fall. The shot would go right through my head, splattering my viscera all over the sea of sand.

It clicked uselessly, and my bullet caught Alfons right below the shoulder of his good arm. He stumbled backwards, held up only by the pyramid's wall. The Mauser tumbled from his hand. So he'd held onto it after all, and never bothered to check for tampering. He mumbled weakly, eyes wide and arm twitching.

"That's what relying on hand-me-downs gets you." I stood Moriah on her feet. "Pull yourself together, girl!" I snapped. "Now's not the time to be panicking."

That did the trick. She snapped out of her funk. "Alfons…" she stared helplessly at her friend.

He tried to smile. "Come on, Mor," he said. "We deserve this. We've earned it."

I'd like to say I had faith in her, but faith is something I left behind a long time ago. Moriah stared at him for the longest time before looking away. "I'm sorry," she said. "And thank you. Now please, don't move. I will treat your wound."

He stood. The wall behind Alfons was slick with his own blood, but the embers in his eyes had been reignited by the rejection. His gentle smile was now a desperate grin. He brought his weak hand up to the hole in his chest as if it could staunch the flow of blood. All it did was make the wound messier. "No," he said. "It's not over."

"Kid," I brandished Miss Daisy. "It kind of is."

"I can see the cylinder from here," he retorted. "You should have counted your shots."

It didn't do much more than delay my firing for an instant, as my eyes flicked down to confirm what I already knew, that I'd reloaded on the way up. But it was enough. My next shot struck Alfons' arm instead of his heart, as he dived forward.

Moriah burst into action. Her strings ensnared Alfons, catching him mid-air and wrapping him up tightly. Her outstretched hand still trembled.

He coughed up blood and gasped for air, eyes bulging. His eyes met hers and he choked, loudly. Instinctively she loosened the strings around his neck, and by extension his body.

His arm jerked, moving barely an inch before she readjusted. He grunted, murmuring an aria under his breath. There was no way he could cast anything. I was certain of it. The contract forbid it.

I was right.

His scream was even more gut-wrenching than Aten's had been. We all knew the pain of activating magical circuits, and perhaps even straining them. But never have I felt my own circuits spark and twist and tear themselves to pieces, taking most of my organs with them. It was a futile effort. That one spell meant Alfons would never be able to practice magecraft again.

I was right, but I was also wrong.

The strings snapped. Alfons must've repeated the same trick I used to get out of Aten's binding in the tomb. For that final Reinforcement, he was willing to sacrifice his own future. No contract could ever stop that kind of resolve.

The boy's broken body moved. The culmination of his efforts served to shift one hand forward by about a metre. After that he collapsed, not dead but getting there. A miniscule accomplishment, but it was enough.

A bloody handprint marred Aten's once-pristine bindings.

I can't quite describe the _ events. The Church's _ shattered, and _ rose, once more _ and _, bristling _ rage, _ _ red eyes _.

_can't_think_

Autonomic Restoration Triggered.

Surface Record: Restoring. – [Corruption: 17.9%]

Decade: Restoring. – [Corruption: 4.6%]

Demi-Century: Restoring. – [Corruption: 1.3%]

Deep Archives: Error. Ciphered. Encryption unavailable. Not restoring.

Millenia Protocol: Error. Ciphered. Encryption unavailable. Access restricted.

Restoration complete.

Open your eyes, boy.

I opened my eyes.

I couldn't breathe, but air wasn't necessary. My lungs carried enough to keep my body functioning for another thirty seconds, and this would be settled in half that time. The hand around my throat was a non-issue. Neither was the crimson sun that looked as if it would fall from the sky at any moment.

Miss Daisy did absolutely nothing as I brought her up and emptied four rounds into Aten's eye socket. He tilted his head to the side and spat out a quartet of misshapen lumps. The red orbs were now pure gold.

"_Interesting_," he breathed. "I'd thought I made sure to completely _erase you_."

I gave up five seconds of my remaining air. "You did."

I punched him in the face. It did nothing. My vision wavered. I punched him in the face with the hand that wasn't nursing broken knuckles. Aten seemed very amused by my useless flailing. Seeing as how they weren't doing anything useful, I kicked, and despite scoring a direct shot to the jewels, all my efforts earned me was a broken toe.

Moriah was behind Aten, sprawled on the summit of the pyramid and bleeding out from a hole in her stomach while I hung over the edge, suspended by the same hand that was crushing the life out of me. Alfons was nowhere to be seen.

I punched him in the face again. Only this time, my arm was on fire.

That did the trick.

He dropped me and took a step back. The next few seconds were a whirl of colour and pain and noise, peppered by grunts and groans and other noises one makes when rolling down the side of a pyramid. Flashes of days ago showed up of their own volition, most prominently the time that one dead guy lit my hand up like a log for the Christmas fire. As soon as I remembered where it had originated the memory stopped, and my now non-flaming hand seized onto an outcropping, halting my descent before I broke something more than a few ribs.

I wiped the blood and sand from my eyes and took stock. The sun hung above me, and I could glimpse Aten descending ever so slowly from above, his eyes affixed on my location. Better me than Moriah, at least.

I got to my knees. Something cracked and a bolt of lightning shot through my nerves. It wasn't just my circuits.

"You are a _pest_!" Aten called down. "Nothing _more_!"

No guns. Nothing that would put a dent in him, except…

"If they ever make a tombstone for what little remains of your corpse, it will tell the whole world never to incur the _wrath of the Gods_!"

There was something. I couldn't lift my arms above my shoulders, so I let the pack slip free on its own. Inside was a long metal tube and its single piece of ammunition.

"The old man is a shell! The girl's lifeblood is an offering to my ascension! Yours will paint the sands _red_!"

"Getting real preachy there, buddy!" Which way did this thing go again?

Aten was taking it slow, on purpose. "There will be plenty of _preaching_. To the women and children, and every living human I don't slaughter for _daring to forget me_!" A few steps away now.

I propped up the tube on my shoulder. "Hate to break it to you, but you ain't even a footnote in the history books, pal." Oh, it was backwards. I quickly switched it around.

Aten stopped, the perfect distance away. If he still had a face, he'd have been frothing at the mouth. "_Blasphemy_. Your name will be synonymous with _blasphemy_. Even uttering it will be a _death sentence_."

Rule number one when facing an insane, speech-capable opponent: Always banter. Always.

I hefted the bazooka, loaded the shell, and looked down the sights. "Death sentence? Here's yours."

Three seconds. That's how long it took.

The air next to my ear exploded. I was half-deafened even by the muffled blast. Fire erupted behind me, and steel flew up the side of the pyramid. The last of my strength had gone into holding up the bazooka. I could do little but watch.

A portable rocket accelerated towards Aten, standing squarely where I wanted him. Supposedly this thing was meant to pierce tank armour. I was eager to find out what it'd do to a supposedly immortal diety.

He, however, wasn't. Aten leaned to one side in slow motion, and my last effort flew harmlessly past him, flying straight into the sky. He grinned, and laughed.

As the rocket reached the pyramid's peak, its flight abruptly halted. Just as it started to sink, I activated the rune I'd hastily carved onto it and prayed for it not to just explode.

It didn't. Instead, the force doubled, magically-enhanced propulsion pushing it to move even faster. And then it turned.

Yes, it turned. The inanimate projectile turned in mid-air, its flight going from a straight line to a large elliptical curve. Aten stepped onto my level, close enough for me to smell his rancid breath, as the rocket swung around, a thin but ever-so-powerful piece of string guiding it. I saw Moriah's silhouette standing at the top, holding on with both hands.

A memory popped into my mind unbidden.

_"Remember son, it's all in the swing," Dad told me as he wiggled the golf club. "And the swing, well, it's all in the back. You gotta stand straight and tall and tell the world it ain't gonna push you around. Go on, son. Give it a try. A one, a two…"_

"…and off you go."

The missile smashed into the side of Aten's head. A perfect swing. Even as my consciousness wavered, I recorded the moment in exquisite detail, savouring it for a short eternity. There was surprise in those eyes, without comprehension to alleviate it. He did not understand. He couldn't understand. Even I didn't understand.

Perhaps it should have stopped. That kinetic energy cancelling trick of his did well enough against bullets. But this was an ever-accelerating vehicle of entropy. Maybe that's what did the trick. I wouldn't know. I flunked my science classes ages ago.

A short disclaimer: I'm fairly sure I'm dying, because none of the rest makes any sense. There's insane, and then there's the following.

He flew. The Sun God sailed into the sky, borne aloft by a tiny lump of metal. Sure, it would be terrible when he came back down, but for now I could laugh at the sheer insanity of it all. He was finally home.

But not for long, because something even greater blotted out the sun.

Here, kitty kitty. That's a nice kitty. When did you wake up, Mr. Sphinx?

The statue roared, producing noise despite not having any vocal chords. Atop its flat head stood something I couldn't make out, but I knew it had to be Archibald. He held aloft his cane, the jewel at the head glowing a bright silver, and commanded the beast.

One moment Aten was flying through the sky with nary a fear in his soul, and in the next a giant stone paw swatted him out of it, smashing him into the ground so hard that the pyramid cracked from the force alone. Then it flipped him into the air, opened its worn, eroded face, and caught the false God in its mouth.

It bit down. I like to think I heard something crunching, but…

Well, reality isn't so kind. It's probably the hallucination of a dying man.


	15. Memories

Sand, when heated to a certain temperature, can become searing hot. A single grain cannot contain such energy for more than an instant, but several million will spread out the pain quite effectively. On some days, records have seen men and women baked alive under the sun's heat. I've felt that pain once. Strange that such a memory comes to me as I write this, but I feel no compulsion to push it away. This is no formal report; it is merely proof that these events really happened. Should my memory one day fail, I will not be left wanting.

I should not worry about such an inconsequential thing. Here, though, I know squarely where to put the blame.

That burning served to wake me. A simple bodily function, pain, was what finally broke through the fatigue that had put me under. As my back and side sizzled, the scattered shards of my mind pieced themselves together, one at a time.

Perhaps the hot sand accelerated the process. There are studies that show how those without sufficient discipline can be easily motivated by base desires such as impending demise. In that state I might as well have been a child. Even a child, however, knows what to do in the desert.

After regaining a modicum of solid footing I stumbled to the closest scenery that wasn't more sand. It wasn't particularly far, and within the minute I sunk against a familiar wall that sheltered me from the sun's rays. At that time my memory had yet to fully return, so I didn't recognize it as the foot of the great Sphinx, situated much closer to the pyramids than I remembered. Those same pyramids had been painted over with a battlefield's brush. I'd been part of that, I knew, but I could not recall how.

As the pain from the burning sand faded, a more serious pain made itself known. My arms and legs were stiff, as were some ribs, and a pounding head-ache that I'd mistakenly thought was from the sunlight started smashing away at the inside walls of my skull. It felt like my stomach had been torn out and replaced with hot sand, but when I felt around there was only scar tissue. Even worse than that, though, was the realization that I wasn't the one in trouble.

It feels awkward to write this. I'm not one for it, even now. But it will help.

Leaving the shadows was one of the most difficult decisions I've ever made. Something that a day before would've been an afterthought was, to a mind in turmoil, the choice between suicide and the rest I deserved. Stay and live or go and die.

It wasn't necessity that made that decision for me. It was the thought that there was someone else out there, someone that had believed in me and trusted me when no one else would. Even now that person was waiting, relying on my meagre knowledge, putting faith in someone that didn't deserve it.

I'm proud of that decision. It was foolish, unnecessary, and served no purpose, but I'm still proud of it.

It must've been hours. I searched until the sun went down and found no one. Our car was miraculously in one piece, and our supplies held a few rations that I would've helped myself to, had my stomach not been near the point of rupture. A rifle lay in the sand some distance away from the largest pyramid, its scope gleaming. I knew it had tumbled down from the very top dislodged by some force. That gun had a name, but I couldn't recall it. I could barely remember my own.

Neither could I instantly remember the name of the man I found slumped against the Sphinx, completely opposite the side I'd taken shelter at. It was the one place I'd never bothered to look; why would anyone sit in the light and allow themselves to be burnt? Too late did the memory return, of me putting him there after finishing my other task, of sealing… something. He stared straight at the sun, a half-finished cigarette dangling from his lips, seemingly unaware of anything. He didn't turn his head to meet me as I trudged through the sand.

"Are you hurt?" Usually he would break the tension, I remembered. I'd spent most of our time together saying very little, so doing the opposite was an unusual experience.

He took a drag, finishing off the carcinogenic and letting it fall to the ground. "All over," he croaked, and then raised the left hand I hadn't seen.

I'd never had someone point a gun at me before. It was a rather sobering experience, serving well to clear the remaining fog from my mind. I remembered this person. He was my ally. My…

With the minimum of movement he turned his head and gave me a once-over. He might have lingered on some parts of the anatomy more than others. After a moment the gun slipped from his fingers and fell to the sand. He twitched as grains splashed over burnished metal.

"Hey," he said. "I know you."

"You do. We worked together."

He tried to smile. At least, I think it was a smile. "Just that?"

I could have said many things. His eyes were empty. He had little to no idea who I was. I doubt he even remembered what we'd just accomplished. His look was more pleading than anything. He was completely lost, completely alone, and completely reliant on me, even more so than that time beneath the Nile.

He'd also helped me murder the one person that had always been on my side, since I was a lonely, useless child. My only friend in those dark years. That friend had wanted to help, and yet…

"We're acquaintances," I lied. "Thank you for saving my life."

"No problem, sweet cheeks. I'd tip my hat, but I think I lost it somewhere. This damn sun…"

He'd never worn a hat. At least, he certainly didn't have one today. As he turned his head to the left to look, I saw a stream of blood completely coagulated along his jawline. The sun had dried it out completely, sealing the wound that would've taken his head off had it been slightly higher.

"Here. Take my hand. The jeep isn't far."

He was lighter than I thought. The arm around my shoulder could barely hold on. We took the steps one at a time.

"Sorry," he said as we walked. "Ashamed to admit it, but-."

"Moriah," I told him and myself. "My name is Moriah."

"Sorry, Moriah," he said. His once strong voice had become weak and insubstantial. The pain of hearing it was worse than any sort of corporeal discomfort. "I've got this – well, the doctors had a lot of names for it. It ain't easy to deal with. Y'know what magecraft is?"

"Yes."

"This thing, granddad had it too. Never as a kid though. Apparently it was some kind of freak miracle. They couldn't figure out a way to fix it, so I just kept forgetting. A lot of things. New things, old things, sometimes really important things. Then I met this old guy and – he fixed it, I think. Maybe. Most of the time it's fine, but I'm all burnt out right now so I can't spell it away. I think I might've rattled my head a bit, too. Did we-?"

"We succeeded. Archibald, the third member of our party, is still out there, but he should be alive as well."

"Good," he said. Just speaking seemed to have worn him out. "That's good, but for some reason I ain't happy about it."

We reached the jeep. I carefully pried open the dented door and helped him into the front seat. He collapsed into it. As I moved to close the door his hand closed around my wrist. There was no power in his grip.

"Wait," he said.

"Archibald is still out there."

"Please."

I waited. I don't regret that, either. Archibald was better equipped to survive in the desert than both of us combined. He'd ended our struggle with one decisive blow. He would be fine. Probably.

Besides, I had no strength left to look.

The driver's seat was comfortable against all odds. I allowed myself to relax, letting the strain leave my body. It wasn't exactly going to do anything about all the internal injuries, but they could be ignored for later. Pain of the body would pass. Pain of the soul…

"I remember," he said. Still staring forward, he lifted the revolver and started at it. "Miss Daisy. Heh. Never lets me down. Damn near mothered me through the first year in London."

I remembered as well. Why I was here. What I'd gone through. The cobwebs in my head were no match for the power of several parallel processes working together to sort through the mess of information my life had been reduced to.

"Hey," he said. "Good for you."

"Hm?"

"You can go back in there," he said, grinning like a fool. "Waltz in and tell those assholes in Atlas that they fucked up. You'll be running the place. Everyone's gonna be telling stories about the girl that saved the world. 'Cus you were right and they were idiots."

It's strange. At that moment, when it should've mattered most to me, my original mission seemed completely pointless. Clearing my name? My family's name? For what, to impress some judgemental know-it-alls and put to rest the souls of people long dead? I'd accomplished much, yes, but all I wanted to do was sit down and sleep for a week.

"…thank you."

"Eh? For what?"

"Being there for me."

He tried to smile, but the happiness had faded too quickly. It was too strong to last. "Any time," he said. "But… I've got a question, and it's a stupid one. I've been wracking my brain but I just can't figure it out."

"Yes?"

His eyes were pleading. "Tell me," he said. "What's my name? Who _am_ I?"

It isn't fair. He didn't deserve this. None of us did. Not me, and not Archibald. Not even Alfons, may he rest in peace. Yet here we were, having paid for the sins of the past with this week of terror. He saved me, but at what cost?

"My apologies," I admitted. "You were our Scribe. You are my hero. But your name… I can't recall it."

He deflated.

"That's fine," our Scribe said, turning back to the setting sun. "I'll remember. It'll come back one of these days."

"Always does."

-a-

There is a recent belief amongst the more idealistic philosophers that every man's life has value. Superstitious folk assign upon that belief the moniker of destiny. Zealots claim it to be God's Plan. Entirely divorced from those flavours of falsities, an intelligent man knows it to be potential.

We – and by that I mean magi as a whole – obsess so much over that potential. Too much. Men spend their dreadfully short lives chasing their own tails, struggling to know just how far they _could_ go. And yet they will never know. Natural paramnesia replaces knowledge with delusion. The disease called ignorance leaves only one choice for us fools who are afflicted by it: Rise, rise, and never cease your ascent.

The only way for a blind beast to know where its path stops is to reach the end and fall into oblivion.

Man is _not_ blind. This creature can see, and upon glimpsing those underneath, the brute knows satisfaction. It perceives that others are below, and so it must surely be above. Climb over the others, one man grasps. Knock them down and you will be elevated. Forget any noble ideals or principles that might obscure the affair. All you see is the end of an everlasting journey. This is the true, ugly philosophy of the creature called _magus_.

When is the last time Barthomeloi Lionel, Vice Director of the Clock Tower, walked with death?

Judging by the tang of expensive cigars that percolated in the top floor of the building many call the heart of magecraft's practitioners, it's been much too long. I should have brought a brolly for fear of that terrible odour impregnating my second-best coat.

He waited for me in his inner sanctum. Not the grandiose affair that is the main office, but the smaller, softer inner study, whose visitors in the past decade could be counted on one hand. Even the King of Beasts needs a place where he can seldom be challenged. As I nudged open a door carved from lumber more ancient than my great-grandfather, I saw the Vice Director sitting on his plush throne, utterly at ease. His head was tilted backwards, facing the ceiling and exposing his wrinkled and bony throat to any assassin's blade. A meaningless show. So secure was he in his power here that he felt no fear at exposing his weak points to me. Hundreds of years in power had left him accustomed to it.

"Lionel," I said.

"Lysander," he replied.

"It's been far too long," he said as he opened his eyes and met mine. From his position, Lionel can dictate which sort of etiquette is worth following. Most of it he discards as useless, but some protocols must be rather pleasant to observe. He didn't try to fake a smile, something I was grateful for. I'm not much good at it either.

"Not long enough," I said. After a slightly too long pause, I continued. "Some might say."

He didn't quite laugh. "Take a seat. Help yourself to the tea."

"I'd prefer to stand."

"I didn't ask."

Ah, that Lionel. He is known less for his Atticism and more for his deep distrust of everything and anything. Nearly two centuries he sits on top of the Clock Tower, and still each morn he checks to see whether it will fall out from under him, taking a jolt of pleasure each time the world confirms what his heart knows; that he is absolutely invincible. I took a seat across from the old cat, in a slightly less stuffed armchair. This low, the scent of tea leaves tempered the thick haze of smoke residue. He gestured to the teacups and kettle on the small table that divided us.

He began the moment my fingers wrapped around the handle. "A job well done. Congratulations should be in order. It is no small feat, what you've accomplished."

I began to pour. "Nothing a team of Enforcers couldn't have handled."

"I didn't send my Enforcers. I sent _you_." He took the proffered cup. I didn't bother pouring one for myself.

"Me and God knows how many others," I reminded him. I'm not some red-cheeked young lad, to be tamed with empty praise and table crumbs. When Lionel Barthomeloi compliments you, there's always a purpose behind it.

His answer confirmed one of my hypotheses. "Not that many, if that's what you're asking," he said. He paused and smelled the tea, drinking in the fresh scent but never touching the cup itself. He was so smug and satisfied that in that very moment I wished nothing more than to be able to reach across the gap between us and strangle that man with my bare hands. "Only… let's see, about half a dozen put in any sort of effort. Most of the recipients of the message promptly refused. It was rather entertaining to watch the separatist faction squabble over who should go."

Even as they curse his name, they bow and scrape, taking whatever scraps he throws them. That's what it means to hold the seat of Vice Director. How wonderful. How absolutely disgusting.

He must have seen the displeasure in my eyes. I am not one to hide such things.

"Oh, Lysander," the old lion purred. "There's no need to be upset. You've worked very hard for this. Earned it fair and square. Saved the world, didn't you? Now there's an accomplishment you can frame and hang on the wall. You've earned yourself a pat on the back, old chap. And a little more, of course."

"Spare me the honey, Vice Director. This worthless diversion is below you."

"No," he said smugly. "It really isn't. Come now, Archibald. Do you still hold a grudge after all these years? Even now, when you stand to clear away all that mud once and for all?"

A grudge? Nonsense. That sort of curse is something commoners enjoy. A magus has no time for petty anger. Resentment, plenty, but simple rage is forbidden. Oh the things one can do when driven by hatred… but my motivation will always be purer, greater than such base instincts. The anger of a magus is not a simple _emotion_, Lionel.

Besides, after dealing with a certain insufferable buffoon, old Lionel was as substantial as a stiff breeze.

So I changed the subject. "You've read the Record, I take it?"

"Of course," Lionel said, putting down his untouched cup and pointing to a stack of papers sitting on his desk some ways behind him. "The penmanship was lacking, and the author very clearly has yet to graduate from genre fiction, but it's a solid piece of storytelling."

"The favour?"

"It's yours, Lysander! All in good time. Before that, you'll need to elaborate on certain elements. Human elements."

There it was. Purposefully stalling, knowing I hated every second I spent in this room. That's just par for the course, really.

"…ask."

A Barthomeloi doesn't ask. "The Guide and Scribe. This Record is rather caseous. It only mentions their contributions in passing. Elaboration is required. I know of the man, but this girl is…"

"A nobody," I said. "She had some relation to Aten, and I picked her on a whim. Any other would have done just as well. The Scribe, on the other hand… well, I was curious."

He leaned forward. "Was that curiosity of yours satisfied?"

"The more I discovered, the less I wanted to know. You might think he holds his Master's magic, but it's merely an echo. The Crest you seek died in America, years ago. What remains is yet another drifter with no lineage to speak of."

The fact that _this_ of all things was what finally wiped the smirk from Lionel's face is something that brings me no joy. It's as if that uncouth fool had fired the bullet himself.

"Lionel. The favour."

Irritation. I'd kept poking at my one bargaining chip. "Fine," he snapped. "Since you're sorely lacking in patience, I'll indulge you. What do you want? Status, I assume? Your old position? It won't be difficult to grant the Archibalds more power. Perhaps a title or two and a good slice of land. Will that be all?"

"No."

His eyes narrowed. "Something more selfish, then? Materials? Manuscripts? Mysteries?"

"None of that." I'll not reach the Swirl of the Root with your help. It will be by my own hand.

"Then what, Lysander? Keep in mind that even a favour has limits." By which he meant that any request which displeased him would be summarily rejected. That was the beauty of my reward. It put me completely at Barthomeloi's mercy. Rather than actual currency he'd given me his own fiat money, accepted nowhere else, with value completely decided by his every whim. A pension built on shoddy stock that would tie my destiny to his.

I'll have none of it. That foolish Scribe said something to the effect once. It's a ridiculous idea, but if I had to decide who I resent more between a fool that can't keep his mouth shut and an old man with a God-Complex, I'd have to go with the latter. At least the fool was honest with me.

In the dimly lit study, I would offer the devil a deal of my own.

"Do you hate me, Lysander?" he asked softly, as if he couldn't fathom any other notion upon glimpsing the heat in my eyes. "Is it revenge you desire? I'll never grant something so petty. Not in a million years."

He still didn't understand. He couldn't.

"I don't resent you, Lionel," I admitted. "It's our own name that I curse every day. It is my grandfather's, for throwing away our family's place in the world and forcing me to clean up his mess. No, your betrayal was to be expected. Our families were allies, but that bond only works both ways. If one is weakened, there's no reason for the other to hold onto it. The moment we became a liability it was your responsibility to let go, as is only proper. It was a hard lesson to learn, but learn I did, you bygone relic."

He stiffened. I saw the old rage building up in his eyes, while my own cooled as I exposed it. He and I evidently subscribed to different theories on the place of anger in a magus' repertoire of tricks.

"No, Lionel, I would never ask for your alliance. Not, as you put it, in a thousand millennia. What I desire is not even a tenth as valuable. You hold no obligation of your own. No services rendered, no property transferred. But it will never fade, even if my family name is dragged through the dirt again. You could refuse, I think, but you won't. Not something so insignificant."

I extended a hand.

"Barthomeloi, my name is Archibald. You and I shall be _friends_."

-a-

The check was for five thousand pounds. A small fortune to a guy like me, but definitely lacking the zeroes I'd been promised. Archibald said he'd deducted an amount for, and I quote: "Insubordination, incompetence, cowardice in the line of duty, withholding information, abandoning the assigned post, and a general lack of hygiene."

Fuck you, Archie.

Even that, and the small sum I was given for transport, is enough to last me a few more months. It's strange to be in London again, with a thick lining of cloud cover shielding me from the sun that now sent shivers down my spine with its gentle warmth. The early winter chill went straight to my bones after Egypt's heat, leaving me shivering through my coat as I trudged through the streets, side-stepping holes in the sidewalk that had yet to be filled from last year's bombing. They were good for rent prices and not much else.

The place was just as I'd left it. Though the name engraved on the plaque that hung from the door didn't feel like mine, it had to be. I ran my finger over the top and it came away clean. She'd dusted.

Muscle memory is such a useful thing, but I never realized that simple fact until that old pile of bones scrubbed mine. It took me a good thirty seconds of fiddling with the key to open the bloody door. Inside I found a clean and proper office that didn't at all feel like it belonged to me. I made a mental note to mess it up a bit after I slipped into a coma for twelve hours.

I didn't even manage two before I heard the front door open. My blood ran cold. Was it the Association? Had they finally lost their patience and come to cut me up and stick my brain in a jar?

A lack of sleep makes a man stupid.

"Hey," I greeted my housekeeper. "You're looking bright."

She really did. Her smile was tired now, though. "A week without you does a girl wonders," she said. Bundled up in a thick coat, she was almost unapproachable, and I really didn't feel an inclination to try. Times like this, a guy just wants to be alone for a while. She could practically read my mind. "I was just dropping off the mail," she explained. "Didn't suppose I'd get a chance to say goodbye, too."

It was a thin bundle of maybe four or five envelopes. They'd be bills, most likely. Speaking of which, I really should have cashed Archibald's check before coming back, lest the landlord be waiting for me with his ugly mug twisted into a frown.

"It was a pleasure." We shook hands. Hers was cold. I hadn't felt real cold in what seemed like forever. "You doing alright for yourself?"

She smiled and snapped her fingers. A small flame appeared, hovering above her thumb. "Saving money on heating, at least, thanks to you. Did the job…?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "I'm back. Doesn't feel like it, though."

She giggled. "Of course not, silly! Part of you is still in Egypt. It's written, clear as day, on your face."

Upon seeming my reaction, her giggling only increased in intensity. There's not enough of me left that I can afford to leave bits behind. Well, Moriah would take good care of it.

"Here." I brandished some pound notes. "Should cover what I owe you."

She shook her head. "Keep them. I have another job lined up. You look liked you need it more."

Not exactly good for a guy's self-esteem, but she was too sincere to turn down. "I'll miss you," I admitted.

She smiled. "Not too much, I think. Live-in housekeepers are a dying breed as it is. You should invest in a maid, or perhaps a secretary. Less hassle that way."

"Sometimes I think I hired you precisely _for_ the hassle."

Her smile faded. "Will you be alright? With that condition of yours?"

She's a swell lass. I really will miss her. "Yeah," I said. "Won't be an issue. Just, before you go…"

"My name?"

I nodded. No need to explain things again.

"Christie. Goodbye, sir. I wish you well."

And then she was gone and I was alone again.

I took my souvenir from Egypt and my pocket knife and cleared the front desk. After five minutes of careful carving, Miss Christie was ready to be part of the arsenal. No idea how much use I'll find for an Etherlite whip, but Moriah says even a dunce can acquire an adequate amount of proficiency with a modicum of practice.

After that, I got to work on the mail. I was right. Most were bills. One was a receipt from Archibald confirming the termination of our contract. I added one more to the pile: A goodbye from Moriah, to be read in private only when I reached home. I even got a letter from the Einzberns, promising not to kill me for my brash behaviour concerning their family member.

Just as I put down the last, useless piece of paper, someone knocked on the door. It was a dainty sort of knock, the kind that'd come from an upper-class lady unused to bruising her delicate knuckles. The letters went into a spare drawer and I advanced to the door.

A quick look through the peephole revealed no assassins or Enforcers come to take my head. I'll count that as a victory.

She was shivering. The light dress and fur coat she had on weren't enough to stave off the chills of the incoming winter. I quickly ushered the lady in before she froze to death and deprived me of a potential customer.

"Should I put on some tea? Coffee, perhaps?"

She shook her head. "It's fine. Sorry, I'm just… in a hurry. You are the detective, yes?" She spoke with a light Russian accent. Evidently there'd been some attempt to disguise it, but I'd spent enough time next to a certain Ruskie to recognize a native.

"The one and only." I sat down. She took a seat opposite me, fidgeting nervously, with the office desk between us. "What's the rush, ma'am?"

She looked around and licked her lips. They'd been painted a bright red, with her delicate eyes a deep green, skin a pale white, and hair a thick, inky, wavy black. A new client. The first in ages.

"I need your help," she admitted. "I don't know where else to go. Everyone else has shut the door without even listening. I've been framed. The Yggdmillennia, they're after my Crest-!"

Oh boy. A family even bigger than the Archibalds. Mixing my business with theirs wouldn't lead to anything good. This was a catch, all right, but I wasn't sure I could reel it in without it biting my face off. Just my luck, to have something this big show up when all I wanted to do was sleep for a week.

Too bad I've always been a sucker for a pretty face.

"Alright, sweetheart," I said. "You've got my attention."

**END**


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